Of Darkness Still
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: A young anthropologist finds her in the midst of tragedy when on a brief mission with the USS Union the Botany Bay is discovered. Given charge of a furious Khan, she is forced to watch as Starfleet exploits the situation with the aims of war and the world around her begins to burn. Khan/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**It's here! For months, the Star Trek piece I had promised is here! **

**I loved Into Darkness. Not only was the plot, CGI, and acting magnificent, but Benny was in it as a ruthless and cutthroat ****villain. Naturally, I was charmed by this new take on Khan in the alternate universe. And I swiftly began to scheme...**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Star Trek. Any Star Trek. Just a few DVD sets**

**WARNING: I don't consider myself a trekkie. I'm really in love with Next Generation and watched it as a kid, and I adore the latest movies set in the alternate universe. But I've yet to marathon the original series, read many of the novels, comix...etc. I will attempt to be as accurate to the universe as possible, either way.**

**Prologue**

**-xxx-**

He had counted on being pursued by the _Enterprise's _first officer. However, he'd not counted on being caught. Later, he will attribute this to a lack of will – without his crew, there was no longer an end game to be achieved.

Lieutenant Uhura's repeated attack of his person had left the Augment slightly winded, but otherwise uninjured. A few more stunners had toppled him, allowing for herself and her Vulcan counterpart to take him into custody. He sneers when the doctor McCoy met them in the transport room.

"It appears I may still be of use to you after all, _Doctor," _he enunciates. McCoy, for his part, merely tightened his jaw. He was already stricken by the loss of his captain and friend. Dealing with Khan is not helping matters. He did not reply, but gestured for a few red shirts to escort the fugitive to medical bay. Two hours and twenty minutes later, Khan is released to his glass chamber in the prison sector once more. Five hours and fifty-four minutes following that, Captain James Tiberius Kirk breathes again. The crew celebrates. Khan fumes.

**-XXX-**

He is visited by Commander Spock approximately twelve hours after his capture. Seated at the back of his cell, Khan watches the Commander approach with his unnervingly blue eyes crystal clear. Uhura and McCoy accompanies him. Both appear on-edge, whereas the Commander is serene, if a bit stern. The Augment des not bother in approaching the transparent glass-like field that kept him bound to the tiny white chamber, nor did sit up or greet the Starfleet officers. He simply waits.

"Khan Noonien Singh," the Vulcan began calmly in his clipped and professional tone. "You are being held, for the time being, on the _Enterprise_ as she is docked and awaiting repairs at the San Francisco Starfleet station until appropriate accommodations are established for you –"

He doesn't doubt that this translated to a high-security prison vault within Starfleet HQ. They would want to keep him close. He is high-risk, after all, volatile, unpredictable, and…valuable. Marcus had not been the only one to see that.

"—furthermore, Starfleet has acted within its charter in seeking to hold trial to hold you accountable for the lives taken at the Kevlin Memorial Archives, the summit of Starfleet command, Kronos -"

It is quite a list. There were more, of course – a lot more – but Khan does not feel particularly keen to add any more names. Not that it matters.

"—and for that of Captain James T. Kirk of the _Enterprise." _The Vulcan takes a pause. The dark female, Uhura, shifts beside him. Khan detects a level of comfort between the two that was not standard for colleagues. He has had little interaction with Vulcans since he awoke, but if forced to guess he would say that the pair is … together, in a sense. Perhaps not bonded. But together. Curious.

"You will stand trial," Spock says evenly. "And I do not doubt that in the conclusion of that trial you shall be held fully accountable for all of your actions."

Khan merely gazes back, entirely unphased.

The doctor's hands, which had been crossed, lower into fists. But he does not speak.

Uhura move again, touching the Vulcan on the elbow lightly. He looks to her, brow furrowing slightly. She murmurs something too low for the Augment to catch – surprising, as his hearing was terribly advanced, but perhaps the force field separating them is straining her out. The Vulcan seems to agree, and turns back to the prisoner.

"I also feel it is my duty to inform you that all seventy-two of your crewmen survived and are currently being house in a secure location within Starfleet's San Francisco base," he says lowly. "They are due to be moved shortly, however, to another secure location."

That caught him. Khan didn't move, but he blinked slowly. All at once he seems to drain, chest falling, temper deflating. Inside, his world is crashing apart again. _"Alive. Alive. Alive. They're alive," _his mind chants. Khan pushes the raw emotion aside – something to be dealt with later – and blinks again, clearing his head. This was good news. This was…hopeful.

With a short nod, the Vulcan makee to take leave, with the lieutenant and doctor following. A deep voice held them back for a moment.

"Thank you," the Augment says. The humans turn back and stare – Uhura with something akin to pity, McCoy disgust. Spock simply inclines his head again. This time, Khan returns the nod.

**-XXX-**

Two days later, he is transferred. Khan briefly saw flashed of the ocean, the bridge, and the tall silver bay city before he was removed from the world. He savored his last few breaths of unstale, some-what-fresh air quietly.

The high-security holds they'd place him in were in the bottom of a warehouse just off of HQ. It was a secluded location with a basement holding similar to that of Section 31 in London – hidden, high-tech, expansive. The cell he was placed in was by no means new, forcing Khan to wonder just how many had occupied this underground prison. There were multiple cells, a dozen in total, lining the walls of his part of the compound. All were empty, of course. He suspected this to be another facet of Marcus's pet projects, though he could not speculate on cause or who specifically the Fleet Admiral had intended on keeping here.

His new quarters (to term it in the nicest way possible) are spacious. There are something like two rooms, a bathroom and a general living area. A thick metal pallet slides out from one wall creating a bed of sorts, while a table bolted to the floor provides an area to dine with a chair-like structure attached to the wall adjacent. A few PADDs rest in a shelf-nook near the bed. The lights are adjustable. It's relatively comfortable, aside from the transparent wall and the fact that he cannot go anywhere.

The escort of officers disbanded once Khan is released into the cell, leaving him to face Commander Spock once again. He suspects Kirk to be recovering still, else the pompous man would have probably insisted on coming along as well. He'd have his time, soon enough, with the trial and execution. Khan does not balk at the thought of his prospective death. If anything, he welcomes it, though perhaps not entirely gladly.

Spock regards the Augment with liquid eyes. "Starfleet has installed the most advance security measures," he tells the prisoner bluntly. "Any attempts at escape would be most futile and unwise. Everyone in your security detail has been told to shoot you on site should you be discovered where you do not belong. And phasers will _not _be set to stun. While we are uncertain if the setting that are fatal to a human would succeed in killing you, we have little doubt that they would be adept at disabling you at least briefly."

If Vulcans could sound any colder, Spock would have reached zero on the kelvin scale.

"There will be a crew on duty twenty-fours-seven to see to your needs," Spock continues. "And periodically members of Starfleet's Justice Department to collect your statement as well as a psychoanalysis."

"Why are you telling me this, Commander?" the Augment asks quietly. "We both know your Vulcan sensibilities loathe repetition and I am more than observant enough to detect that my chances of escaping are _slim _–" Here he bared his teeth briefly. "—at best. So…why?"

The Commander is silent. Then –

"I merely wish to remind you that despite the lives you have taken, despite how much of Starfleet you have disable…we have won, Khan Noonien Singh." The Vulcan met the Augment's eyes, hate pulsing. Spock's human capacity for emotion was ruling him. He does not especially mind. He allows it. He accepts the hate. "And you shall pay for your crimes. Eternally, if the courts allow it."

With that, the Vulcan spun on his heels and turned away.

**-XXX-**

Boredom was mind-numbing. Excepting the PADDs, Khan has little distraction in his new holdings, which drives him to near madness. They do not trust him with a comm system or any other computer. He has no other reading besides the PADDs, which contained nothing more than a few classic fictional text and a brief history of the world from the Eugenics Wars to modern times. Curious, he searches for mention of his name, and found a brief paragraph outlining his reign of the lands from the Middle East and greater Asia. But there was little else.

He is driven to think, and there was no greater misery. Khan had been designed to be a superior thinking creature; it was his greatest gift, his mind. Yet, given recent events and the fact that he had been in a comatose state for the past three hundred years, there wasn't much to think on that particularly pleased the Augment. If anything, the silence and time spent dwelling within his own thoughts only served to anger him – just has it had during his time of imprisonment under Marcus, before the Fleet Admiral realized Khan potential and gave him a measured amount of freedom.

The only thing serving to cool the Augment was the knowledge that his people were safe. Moderately safe. They had not been destroyed in the destruction of the _Vengeance. _This consoled him. While he might die for his attempts to win their freedom, they might still find life again. There was hope, anyways.

He felt little guilt for the lives he claimed in his attack of San Francisco. They had driven him to it. He had adequately expressed to Kirk his level of devotion for his crew. The retaliation could be no surprise.

Yet, there was some form of regret that dwindled within the Augment. True, he had been designed and bred to be a machine of death, to do what those inferior to him could not, to take action. Despite this, he did not relish any loss of life. To do so would be…callous. While he wasn't _quite _human, the Augment did identify as mostly-human, and therefore, ingrained with a sense of morality. Albeit, one he could drop at will.

_"Weakness," _Khan thought. Having reflected on the matter enough, he turns to meditation. Anything to make the hours pass.

**-XXX-**

**This is planned out to be 24 chapters in total, and will span across the timeline of both movies, with inclusion of _Enterprise's _crew. The next chapter will, hopefully, have a little more meat to it. **

**Question: Is "augment" to be capitalized? Is it like saying someone is French or Asian? Or is it like describing someone's other traits, like deafness or bald?**

**Feedback is the best thing ever! I'd greatly appreciate hearing your thoughts! Please review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Holla, this is my 80****th**** story! **

**Okay, I am not pleased with the title at the moment. It's just a smidge too…cliché for my taste.**

**This story will flash between two different points in the timeline, 2258 (the year the _Enterprise_ had her maiden voyage and fought the _Narada_) and 2259 (which is when the events of Into Darkness take place). I'll try my best to indicate which.**

**-XXX-**

**2258**

When I first started earning my degree in anthropology, I dreamed of visiting exotic, isolated places, roughing it to live in harmony with nature, interacting with natives and learning their way. I wanted to study obscure cultures, understand the vastness of human life in all of its complexities, contribute to a greater comprehension. Of course, I imagined doing all of this from Earth. Never once did I hold any desire to go beyond our atmosphere, to travel among the stars.

But the field was changing. While archaeologists still had an abundant source of undiscovered site, and forensic anthropologist rarely ran out of corpses to exhume, those of us on the cultural side of things were coming up short. There weren't too many unstudied ethnic group or cultures left, and the more contemporary studies weren't quite tasking enough to be considered worthwhile. It didn't take too long for someone to suggest Starfleet utilize this body of bored academics to aid in interacting and better understanding alien cultures encountered on exploration missions.

And so, at twenty-four, with my PhD just under my belt, I found myself being shuttled out to the USS _Union _for a brief exploratory mission under Fleet Admiral.

**-XXX-**

_"At least I'm not required to wear a uniform," _I reason as I strap myself into the thick grey shuttle seat for the long ride. Seeing as I'm not technically a member of Starfleet, they hadn't seen fit to outfit my expedition. Which is fine by me. I've never been one for uniforms. Twelve years of primary and prep school had given me enough of that. Besides, mini-skirts aren't really my thing.

A few lieutenants and cadets are still milling about the cabin. I pull my backpack close to my chest. One officer in blue smiles at me widely before taking a seat beside me.

"Lieutenant Cooper Detharow," he says by way of greeting, sticking out a hand. I accept, shaking firmly.

"Dr. Alya Nejem," I offer back.

He raises a brow. "Are you a part of that archaeology scheme they've set up now?"

"Anthropology," I correct, no offense taken. "Yeah. I've been assigned to the _Union _for the journey to the Cla'qack quadrant." My orders had only come in last week. And I'd only applied a month ago, at the urging of my advisor. Silas was sick of having me mope about his office, complaining of boredom. I'd been TAing - then teaching properly as a "visiting professor" - for nearly a year.

"You're a little young to be a doctor, aren't you?"

"A bit," I admit. This fact both impressed and bothered my parents greatly – they were proud of their over-achiever daughter, but worried that I would hit the ceiling sooner rather than later.

He grins. Cooper is quite attractive, with carefully combed sandy blonde hair and an easy smile. "How did you swing that?"

"A lot of hard work. What are you on for?"

"Bioengineering," he explains. "I'm collecting data on the environment of plants we encounter."

"Ah."

We're interrupted by the arrival of a harried woman bursting into the cabin. She's obviously running late, out of breath. With a gust of air, she sinks into the seat next to me.

"You almost missed the shuttle," Cooper hisses in disapproval over me.

As if following cue, the shuttle begins to purr, engines called to life. We'll be ascending soon. I look to the windows automatically. This will be the last time I'll see Earth for six months. My chest begins to ache. _"You choose this," _I remind myself sternly. _"You decide to have space adventures rather than remain at university teaching alcohol-addled undergrads." _

Having caught her breath, the woman sits up, running a hand through her purple pixie locks. She blinks golden eyes sheepishly. "I overslept, Coop."

"You're not going to get a chance to do that on duty, Ensign," he says primly. I suspect that this is all an act put on to distress the new arrival, as Cooper strikes me as a very easy-going person.

She winces. "I know, I know. This is the last time." She straps herself in. Once adjusted, she turns to me. "Hello, I'm sorry. Luta Me'thon, _Union _communications ensign."

I shake her hand. "Alya Nejem."

"She's a doctor," Cooper explains. "Part of the new anthropology program."

"Oh!" Luta's eyes widen. "That's awesome. So you're going to be the one interacting with whatever we might come across? I don't envy you."

"Luta, watch it, that's her job. I'm sure Dr. Nejem finds the idea of meeting new life forms fascinating."

The truth is, I'm positively terrified. With little field work under my belt and no time spent outside of Earth's atmosphere save for a few trips to Mars visiting my auntie at a base, I am inexperienced. Besides this, the fact that my degree was earned years before most people even finish their masters, I feel very, very young. But I am determined to make my name.

"You can call me Alya," I say. "And it is exciting. I mean, there is so much to see, and we'll be some of the first people to encounter it."

It's a matra I've repeated to myself throughout the application process and my subsequent acceptance of a research and liaison post on the USS_ Union. _Luta looks a little more convinced.

"Well, I'm just excited to have the job," she crows lightly. "If things go well here, I might be able to look forward to a position on the _Enterprise." _

I note her red uniform. She's a security person, which strikes me as unusual. She's aslip of a creature.

There is a roar, followed by a jolt, and we're off. The shuttle rises steadily. Again I turn to the window.

_"Goodbye," _I think.

Six months. It's a long time. But it might not be so bad, with people like Cooper and Luta, who are already joking and conversing easily beside me. Less than five minutes into our flight and Luta is checking our room assignments to see if we'll be near one another, and attempt to discern what shifts we work. Cooper asks if I know how to play 3-D chess, if I'll engage him when we have some time off. I relax, feeling that the half of a year might not be so bad.

**-XXX-**

"Do you recognize those markings?" Marcus asks sharply.

Three months aboard, and I'm still unnerved by the commands of any officers. Especially the Admiral Marcus. This military life is not particularly to my liking. Admiral Marcus has especially seemed to forgotten that while I'm on his ship and under his crew, I am not a member of Starfleet. I push aside these sour thoughts, however, to focus on the matter at hand. I've not truly worked since we encountered an unidentified species crossing space with us two weeks ago. To be utilized is a temporary break from boredom.

I've been called from my chambers to the bridge to identify something on screen. It's a ship, very old, suspended beside the dark side of the Antillion moon we're near. From this distance, however, I cannot discern anything.

"Can you zoom?" I ask carefully. Marcus is a volatile man. For the most part he interacts with his crew nicely enough. In private however…..

The operations guy complies, and soon enough I can make out the script. My lips purse. "It's English, Admiral. The _SS Botany Bay." _

_"Lazy bastard."_

Marcus proceeds to ignore me. "Send a crew down. It appears abandoned, be cautious. And send Nejem with you."

My stomach sinks automatically. In these three months, I've barely spent any time doing field work. While I am excited by the opportunity, and the element of danger only heights this feeling, I'm also terrified. I am nothing to Marcus. I have no doubt that if it comes between me and his men, I'll not just come in second, but dead last. He isn't a heartless man, by any means, yet I get the feeling that he's not afraid of sacrifices.

I follow the commander, a hefty man in his forties. Two security officers meet us in the transporter room, along with Cooper. I shoot him a look, to which he shrugs – _"I don't know either." _As we're outfitted with phasers, he says lowly, "There are signs of life…but no one is answering our communications."

"So they're sending us down?" I ask, speculative. "An anthropologist and biologist?"

His mouth draws a grim line. "I don't understand it either, but we'll do as Marcus says."

_"Like we have a choice," _I think. Outwardly, I ask, "How is the air quality?"

"Filtered oxygen," Cooper says. "Surprising, considering this ship has been out here God-Knows-How-Long. We'll be okay. Just stick by me, Alya."

"You two ready?" the commander asks.

"Yeah." Out of the corner of my eye I see Cooper suppress a smile as he answers with a clipped "Yessir." I'll never get the hang of this military life.

We file onto the transporter platform. Beside me, Cooper offers a half-smile The operator gives the go. Bands of gold envelop me, warm and ticklish. I breath slowly as my atoms begin to separate, reminding myself that beaming is very standard, and that nothing terrible had happened since Admiral Archer's beagle went missing in an experiment conducted by some fool engineer.

The air changes. It's colder, staler than that found on the ship. Inhaling, I steady myself. I open my eyes slowly to find only darkness greets me. A light noise alerts me to the arrival of my fellows. In a few seconds I feel the warm and dry hand of Cooper reaching for my own. Thankful for the darkness, I accept his hold, squeezing gently.

"This place is as stale as a tomb," one redshirt remarks.

There is a click, and a faint lightly illuminates our surroundings. It's an emergency motion-sensitive light, just the kind we have in all officer's rooms. A moment passes before I can make anything out, though, from the deep shadows. We're in some kind of expansive room, a hanger I suppose. And we're surrounded by caskets.

Or, at least, that's what I first take them as. Cooper leads me to examine one. I hang back as he leans in close, removing a small pen light from his belt. Flicking it on, he directs it at the head of the case, peering in. The beam casts into the surface – _"Glass," _I realize _– _ to reveal a face. But this isn't any Snow White crystal coffin. Ice crystals gather at the seams, and the face is ghostly pale. I draw back.

"Commander," Cooper calls sharply. He's speaking in his Lt. Detharow voice. "I think you should see this."

Everyone gathers to examine the case. After circling it, Cooper discovers a readout display that details all of the occupant's life readings.

"Cyrogenics," Cooper says in wonder. "Who knows how long they've been here? How many are there?"

One of the security fellows does a quick count. "Eighty-four, sir."

Cooper and another security guy began examining all of the cask's displays. The commander and one security guy, Harlan, went off to search the rest of the ship.  
I hung back with the last red shirt, who introduces himself as S'van. With nothing left to do, I search our initial casket, the one Cooper had lead me to, for…something. They're very old, with display read out written in English, but not the Federation Standard I am familiar with. It's curious.

We gather back in an hour. Cooper informs us gravely that only 73 of the crew are still in a cryogenic state. 12 have passed, either from an inability to survive the circumstances or from awaking too early. Some of the casks are failing in maintaining life systems.

"This guy," Cooper says, jerking a finger towards one of the furthest casks. "Has a few years left on him, but after that…." He makes a thumbs-down gesture. "I don't know how you wanna call it, Commander. We could beam them up, keep them in the hull and attempt a revival once we have a sufficient medical team. But that might be a while – I wouldn't recommend reviving them with our medical staff on ship, they're not enough. And we don't know anything about these people, anyways. I can barely distinguish if they're human. Did you find anything in the ship's log?"

Harlan holds up a small green chip. "It's encoded. We'll have to get someone in communications to open it."

The commander sighs. "We'll take them aboard. Let me contact Marcus –"

An urgent beeping punctures his works. Cooper spins, flying to the distant bed he's only just pointed out.

"He's slipping," my friend gasps. "He's got minutes."

"I thought you said he had a few years!" the commander shouts.

"I was wrong, I was wrong!" Cooper is grim. "I don't know…I can't…to take him out of cryo without a medical staff would be practically murder. I can't know if he'll make it out alive! It's too risky, we need to beam him up –"

But the commander ignores this. Shoving Cooper aside, the man begins tapping on the display, coding it to open the lid of the cask. All at once, a flash erupts from within the glass box. A warming device, I suspect. Cooper protests loudly, to no avail. The glass slides back, steam erupting from the seams as soon as they're unsealed. It takes some time for the fog to lift, revealing the person within.

Despite the dark, I can make out the pale, sculpted features of a man with dark hair. He lies so peacefully, with a clear brow and arms straight at his side, if I didn't know better I'd suspect him to be sleeping. I stare while the commander pounds on the chest of the frozen man. There is no reaction. Cooper is pulling him back, shouting.

"You've already killed the best chance he had! That's no way to wake a cryogenically frozen body. He can't endure that shock well enough to reestablish homeostasis!"

They're occupied with their arguing. So I am the only one that sees the fist of the frozen man's hand twitch. Aghast, I watch as the muscles of his face and arms begin to move. His chest rises, then falls, breath coming to him quickly. While the arguing commences, I near the pallet the man rests upon, stopping just before him. S'van watches me, wary. Standing over the figure, I can now see the muscles of his eyes flickering. And then, they open.

Bright, brilliant blue-grey eyes flare meet my gaze with one quick flicker. I utter a low cry, wishing to draw back but finding myself held in place by those marvelous eyes. Cooper and the commander pause. Upon seeing what, exactly, was going on, Cooper runs to the open cask, pushing me aside. I move to stand against the wall, between the open cask and the nearest unopened cask. The frozen man breathes heavily, eyes flashing, gathering his surroundings. He makes to sit up.

Cooper makes a soothing sound. "Easy there. You're likely enduring some shock. We're friends. Members of Starfleet. From Terra. Earth," he adds, for clarification. The man blinks. He seems a little slow. Confused, though, that's to be expected -

Without warning, he strikes. Cooper is on the floor, incapacitated by a quick a brutal blow to the head. I shriek to see my friend crumpled on the cold floor. The security officers begin shouting, with S'van launching himself at the frozen man. By now, the man has risen from his cask, and strikes S'van squarely in the stomach, causing the man to double over. Another two strikes to his neck render him, too, unconscious.

Our commander moves in next, with Harlan at his side. The pair issue and defect blows effectively. I can tell they've fought side-by-side before and know each other's style intimately. Nevertheless, it's not long until they're worn down – the frozen man seems to be incredibly powerful, and greatly skilled in hand-on-hand combat. The commander is beaten, and he collapses abruptly in the middle of a punch.

Harlan, as if just remember he has it, pulls out his phaser. Settings on "stun," per regulation, he issues shot after shot into his attacker's chest. But the man is only temporarily halted. He descends upon Harlan with a snarl, placing long-fingered hands on either side of the security officer's head, like a lover about to impart a kiss. A beat passes, and then he twists savagely. Harlan sinks to the floor slowly, head flopping to the side heavily. Out of all four men, I am certain Harlan is dead.

Which leaves me.

The man turns slowly, chest heaving. A terrifying sight. His face is slightly bloodied, nose leaking a black-red liquid. Another cut just above his left eyebrow seeps more sticky blood. Eyes are in dark shadow, making the blue stands out. Those blue-orbed eyes alight upon me. Again, I feel utterly trapped by them. I've shrunk in the gap between casks, and scramble to press against the wall when he looks at me. Advancing forward, he carelessly steps over the bodies of my fellows, face slipping into an impassive mask. I bite back a whimper as he nears. Tears stream down my cheeks freely. This is it. This is the result of all of my work. My phaser is in my pocket, pressing into my thigh, but I dare not remove it. There would be no cause. I shall die here, just as the others.

A though occurs to me. Swiftly, I press my comm pin.

_"Dr. Nejem?" _sounds softly in my ear. I find that I cannot reply.

He pauses just before me. Those eyes are electric, bright with victory and some other emotion I cannot name. Hate, perhaps. An excitement that only causes me to further recoil.

The stare changes as he tilts his head. The eyes narrow. Now it appears he has truly reached confusion. "Where am I?"

To my surprise, the voice is slightly slurred, yet still deep and powerful. As if all the force in his chest is behind those words.

"_SS Botany Bay."_ This cause him to sink just slightly. In relief or disappointment, I cannot discern. He's coming near still. Mere feet from me.

"W-who are you?" I demand. A heavy heartbeat has risen in my chest. I grasp it deliriously. If I am to die, let me die foolhardy and brave.

Something like surprise rises in the man, and he stares at me. It takes me a moment to realize his eyes are loosing focus, and I lean forward, straightening myself just before he gasps, _"Khan."_

After this he plummets to the group. Equal with the fallen officers.

There is a crackle in my ear. _"Dr. Nejem?" _the voice repeats, a note of concern evident.

_"Took you long enough."_

I lower myself to check the frozen man's – "_Khan's" _ - pulse. It's struggling, but present. "We've encountered an attack. I am the only person still conscious. Send a medical crew immediately. We're in the same holding bay we were beamed in. Bring a few additional security personal as well." I move to S'van, who is also alive. Cooper is too, thankfully, though his pulse is sluggish, dangerously slow. The commander is only out, but poor Harlan is gone entirely.

_"Attack?" _The communications officer sounds astounded.

_"_Yes, lieutenant, an attack. I'll have a full report for the Admiral later, right now beam out a medical crew, and get on it. We'll also need to make sure the hull is clear. We're going to need quite a bit of space." I look around to the rows of glass boxes. "Room enough for seventy-two bodies."

**-XXX-**

**Annnnnd we've had our introductions. What are your thoughts so far?**


	3. Chapter 3

**I hope everyone who celebrate Christmas had a great one! Mine was fair enough. **

**Thank you so much for the feedback! I really appreciate readers taking the time to drop me a review!**

**-XXX-**

**2259**

Nearly a week passed in utter boredom. He spent quite a bit of time meditating. The secluded, silent nature of his chambers readily allowed for this. Onboard the _Enterprise_ or any of the Admiral's ships, his holdings had been quite bustling. Fortunately, as it seemed he was to stay awhile and was considered too charismatic to be allowed in normal Starfleet confinement, he'd been give very private quarters.

The PADDs were replaced as he works through them, though not at a fast enough rate. He processed about eight a day. They'd given him nothing too interesting – classical fictional works, a variety of volumes of poetry, and a few select pieces of history. The occasional quantum physics text or botany study was thrown, too, and he wondered who, precisely, is selecting his reading. None of it was "dangerous" or would in any way aid him in escape, however. For the most part, Khan's reading material seems to give him an appropriate update of the goings-on of the world. Having resided on Earth over the last three years, it was hardly necessary. But he grudgingly finds that they are things he was not aware of. Unsurprising, considering how many hours he spent in laboratory researching and constructing weapons for Marcus's war-bound fleet.

He is learning – a welcomed distraction.

Aside from that, however, the Augment was left with little else to do besides meditate and think. He did not even have any means of drawing or writing. A pity, as design was something he took solace in, and he would like to keep some sort of records.

Unlike his time spent imprisoned under Marcus, Khan experienced a very limited contact with others. Meals were delivered, thrice daily, by stone-faced pair of guards. Every other day or so a physician came to examine him and draw samples. It was never the doctor McCoy, however, and this new doctor, a stern-faced woman of about sixty rarely spoke except to direct him to _"lift that" _or _"move this." _Hardly stimulating conversation.

A fresh-faced security officer stopped by perhaps twice daily to deliver clothes and new PADDs, along with offering updates on his trial, which was not-too-swiftly approaching. As Starfleet had essentially lost the greater part of its command, things were in a bit of a scramble, and processing Khan through the judiciary system was hardly a priority. He could easily imagine most of the _Enterprise's_ officers, and indeed, most of Starfleet, were more than happen to let him stew.

When forced to think, Khan thought of his crew, just has he had over the last three years. His comrades. Names and faces flicked through his mind, tidbits of conversations, hopeful expressions, a collage he allows himself to drown in during points of despair. These were the people relying on him. _His _people. His kind. They were his drive. The only thing keeping him on an even keel. Except, perhaps –

He allowed that his association with a certain Dr. Alya Nejem might very well contribute to his remarkable focus over his three years of servitude to Marcus.

Thinking of the young Dr. Nejem made him uncomfortable. In the years since his release, she was the closest thing he'd established as a friend. It had not been his aim to make friends, especially not with any humans. Considering his plans following the revival of his crew include dealing a significant blow to her species, growing an attachment to Dr. Nejem was unwise. Yet he could not seem to prevent it, as she made a point of visiting him and including him within her life. He'd come to the conclusion last month, when he was pushing the initial steps of recovering of his crew into action, that he would make an effort to spare Nejem and her family. They were sensible people, not the standard cockroaches of her kind.

She was an intriguing person. After their first few encounters, she'd made an effort to see him again. And it would appear she did not mind his company, and would in fact seek it. He'd not encountered any other humans who were so willing to meet with him. Most either acted as some for of security, authority, or coward in fear before him.

Dr. Nejem, however, pushed her fear aside (which was not to say it did not exist, as he new it most certainly did) first to do her job, secondly to establish some form of relationship with the Augment. Marcus did not approve, but he did not deny the John Harrison much while his weapons were in construction. Alya knew of the Fleet Admiral's dislike of her attachment to his chief weapons engineer, but she choose to ignore it. As she put it, the Augment had few balls in his court, and she might as well give him her friendship.

He'd had plenty of balls in his court, of course, with his crew being concealed and his connections to Sector 31.

Yes, he thought, he'd keep Nejem from harm.

She was the only human he'd established any kind of fondness for since his mother. A memory of his mother's brown, round face surfaces, and the Augment sighed. He'd not seen her in roughly three-hundred-and-thirty years.

In the initial Augment trials, volunteers had been impregnated with the genetically engineered embryos. Most were young women in poverty, unable to have their own children, and far from being able to afford insemination. The deal had been cast that if these women were to carry the Augment children to term, the scientist would enable them to have their own children.

Khan's mother, Indrani, was very young. He could recall the scent of her flowery perfume, soft hands and a welcoming smile. He'd stayed with her until he was five, though physically he was nearer eight or nine as a result of the genetic manipulation.

"_Priya," _she would sooth, pushing back his thick black locks. Indrani completely thought of him as her son, despite the fact that they shared no genes, even though he was destined to leave her life all too soon. She raised him like her own, teaching him the ways of their culture, naming him after a grandfather, nurturing. Others would whisper of his differences – pale skin, light eyes. But Indrani scolded, sent them away. He was her son. He never doubted her love.

His father was hardly around, travelling for his work. Indrani did not seem to mind, however. The man was a shadow in the back of Khan's mind. His mother was more of a solid figment, a touch he could recall easily.

She was not smart – not in the way he was. But she was gentle and encouraging and proud. He wondered if she still held that pride, even after he was gone. If she thought her son was out in the world, doing great things. Her bright boy.

They came for him when he was five. She had not cried – not before him, but he heard her weeping through the thin walls of their house the night previous. When they waited in the threshold, Indrani had slowly dressed her son with dry eyes. She stopped, placing her hands on either side of his head.

"Be strong," she whispered. "_Tauti.__Aham asmi mAnanahat. _I have great pride."

With that, she had kissed his forehead, letting her lips linger. Khan looked into her deep brown eyes, examined her round, clear face, the skin that was so dark and different from his own, and hoped he would remember this touch always. One more hug, and he was gently pushed towards the tall and imposing men that had come to take him away.

He looked back only once. And, unless he was mistaken, Indrani had broken her resolve not to cry.

As it had turned out, Khan was the only one from his generation of Augments to have survived. All others had failed within the womb. This made him the eldest, the only one of his class for a time, and soon, the leader.

He never saw Indrani again. He never returned home. In later years, when he ruled from Israel to Asia, he would tour India. They would pass by his village, and Khan would look into the faces of all the brown-faced grandmothers they passed, and he would wonder. But he did not stop. He allowed the feeling rising in his throat to pass.

Since Indrani, no standard human had reached his regard. He rose within the ranks of the Augment army, ruled a forth of Terra with a gentle but firm hand, and then was outcast to the stars with 83 of his fellows. While he was surrounded by those his own kind, Khan felt a deep bitterness. They had made it out, while many had not. Yet, Khan Noonien Singh was deeply unsettled.

It was a feeling that followed him into the cryogenic chamber, then afterwards when he awoke. It would follow him until a few months before launching his attack, when Khan realized a glimmer of hope, a slim promise of a future lay before him. It was a promise he found in the young Dr. Nejem.

**-XXX-**

The seventy-two remaining casks are moved onboard after a team of nurses was sent down to check the vitals. I feel unsettled, knowing that seventy-two people, seventy-two _super strong_ people sit in our hull. Marcus does not seem to care – not minding that one member of this mysterious crew had killed one of his security officers and incapacitated another three. Perhaps it was the inexperienced, naïve side of me, but I could not be so relaxed.

Out of the group, I am the last submitted to the medical bay. I pass Cooper, the commander, and S'van. S'van is the only one conscious. He offers me a half-hearted wave. I return it with a wiggle of stiff fingers, attempting to smile. I fail.

I also pass the unconscious man. _Khan. _He's in his own room, one of the glass-walled private mini-clinics. Someone has cleaned him up. The blood is gone, revealing starkly pale skin. All that remains is a few dark cuts – cuts that are already fading to scars, I note, pink and picked around the edges. Against the white of the sheets, the man appears almost grey.

Noting my gaze, the nurse leading me sighs. "He's going through shock. Not surprising, considering he just was removed from a cryogenic state – without any medical support." She _tsks_. "Then to get up and fight _four _officers…."

"Will he be okay?" I find myself asking. I shouldn't care. I don't _want _to care. Harlan lies down in the morgue, decks below. He doesn't deserve my consideration.

"Yes. He's in a light coma at the moment – self-induced – but he ought to shake out of it sometime within the next week. The human mind is quite adept at healing itself, and if given the chance."

_"Human, my ass," _I think.

"Oh," is all I say. We've reached the room.

"Please sit on the bed," the nurse says cheerily. "And allow me to check your vitals. You've undergone quite a bit of stress, Dr. Nejem, so we need to make sure everything is stable."

I comply with all her instructions. In under twenty minutes I am proclaimed to be in good health. I exit the med bay as swiftly as possibly, my gaze purposefully avoiding the room the man lies in.

**-XXX-**

**Questions, comments, concerns, I take 'em all! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Excited for New Years? I certainly am! **

**-XXX-**

Two days later, I'm sitting beside Cooper's bed, along with several other officers, including Luta. He's a little worse for wear, but on the mend, all smiles, and, more importantly, awake. Mariann, another science officer, has brought him a box of chocolate-covered cherries (replicated, but not bad), which are being passed around.

"Has the Admiral decided what to do with crazy over there?" Cooper jerks a finger towards the room where the man resides.

"No," one ensign replies. "He's not woken up yet."

Cooper frowns. "What?"

"He's in a coma," I supply. "From shock."

"Right. Of course." He seems to recall the circumstances of the man's revival. Cooper moves to sit up better, wincing slightly. "Well, I should be released tomorrow. And then on duty the day after."

"You'll be up to that?" Luta asks, concerned. The normally bouncy hybrid has been unusually subdued, saddened by her friend's pain.

"Yeah. I might be a little tender, but I'll manage," he says valiantly. I snort – he's milking the situation for all it's worth. Cooper winks at me.

We continue speaking, gossip and speculation passing between us. Slowly, people begin to trickle out of med bay. Soon, Luta and I are the only two left. Luta is plumping the pillows when it happens.

A shrill beeping breaks the lull of the ward. The three of us jump. Luta and I turn, locating the source of the noise quickly. It's coming from the frozen man's room, _Khan's _room. He's rousing. From Cooper's bedside I can see the display, the lines of his heart rate spiking wildly.

A team of nurses flood the ward, bursting into the room with the staff doctor hot on their heels. One examines the life signs readout, another three surround the bed. The doctor stands at Khan's head, issuing out quick orders. There is a commotion. The entire bay is thrown into temporary chaos. Patients are distressed and riled, nurses on-edge.

While Luta moves back to Cooper, ready to sooth, I find myself compelled forwards, moving, _floating _towards that glass-walled room until I am at the threshold. Soundless, I stare at the man floundering on the bed before me. The staff is too preoccupied to notice me or tell me to go away. I watch as an oxygen mask is placed over his mouth and nose. His chest, shrouded by a simple black shirt stretched tight over solid muscles, pumps upwards, lungs powerfully accepting the air being offered.  
"How's our heart rate, Karen?" asks the doctor.

"Regular, doctor," she replies. "His brainwaves are falling back, too. He'll be waking soon."

With that warning a few nurses back away steadily. They've undoubtedly heard the account of their patient's waking back on the _Botany Bay. _I can't blame them. The doctor sighs.

Abruptly, there is another spike in his readings, setting off another round of beeping. The staff sets to launch into action again, but they are quickly prevented. The patient sits up swiftly. He removes the mask with an ease and grace I'm almost pained to watch. Blinking slowly, the frozen man focuses his gaze. Right on me.

His eyes are just as piercing as I'd remember, crystal-coloured and void of emotion. I feel lightheaded, and reach out for the frame of the door for support.

That's about when one of the nurses notices me. I am mercilessly shooed out, and nearly back straight into Luta.

"He's awake? I thought he was due to be out for the week?" she gasps. Silent, I nod. The ensign takes my arm. "Are you okay, Alya?"

"Yeah," I manage. "Yeah. Just…tired, all of the sudden."

From behind the glass walls, the man called Khan has yet to look away.

We bid farewell to Cooper. I promise to visit tomorrow after he's released. Luta takes me to my rooms, her brow furrowed and concern in her tone all the way as she repeatedly inquires after my health. At my door, I assure her for the seventh time that I am perfectly alright. She departs, unconvinced. I stand by the door for several minutes, mind blank. Then, I resolve to rest. I pass my replicator, too weary and occupied to eat, moving straight for the bedroom. I strip, step into the shower, and bathe. Afterwards, I slide into bed.

But I cannot sleep. Flashing eyes and rasping voice prevent me. With a huff, I toss and turn, staring out my window. It is sometime before I manage to find sleep.

**-XXX-**

The next morning I am summoned early by a comm message – Marcus bids my presence in his conference room. I dress swiftly in my black dress trousers and a light green blouse. While without a uniform, I can still dress professionally. I forgo heels for plain black flats, then sweep my hair back into a neat bun.

I arrive, greeting Marcus coolly. Personally, I dislike the man. But he is still our admiral – and a damn good one at that. I sit down to the long, white table. Marcus sits at the head, a few seats down, several PADDs laid out before him. His expression is unreadable.

He doesn't reply right away. After several seconds of scrolling through a PADD, the admiral looks up.

"I believe you were the only person to interact verbally with our prisoner," he states tonelessly.

"Yes…sir." I only just remember to tack on the respectful _"sir."_ I straighten in my seat.

"He remembers. And he has been asking after you."

I freeze. "Excuse me."

"He won't speak to any of us. I want you to interrogate him."

"For what?" I shake my head. "Sir, that's not been a part of my training. I'm not any kind of detective, I _interview _-"

"I don't care what the hell you do," Marcus says shortly. "You're going down there. Talk to him, find out where he's from and what his people were doing frozen in an abandoned ship in the middle of nowhere. And report back."

"Sir, I cannot –"

"Dismissed." He turns back to the PADD. I gape, open-mouthed as a cod, for several seconds before slipping from the room. My reputation isn't worth this fight.

**-XXX-**

I am lead down three decks from the bridge, to a long hallway. There is no one in sight. It's just me and two security officers. They stop just before one door at the very end of the hall. A security code in pressed in, the doors slide aside, and we're in –

A vestibule.

"We'll be right here, Dr. Nejem," the younger of the two says. Against my thigh, my fists tighten.

"You're not accompanying me, Lieutenant?" I ask, incredulous. "He is a dangerous man, and I am not getting an security detail? He _killed _a man."

"Admiral Marcus's orders," the young one murmurs. I round on his companion.

"Your admiral does realize I am not a member of Starfleet and therefore not trained in any form of combat. If this prison wished to inflict any harm on me I'd be toast. I demand -"

"He has been calm and compliant since his release, doctor," the second security officer assures me. "You will be in no danger."

"And your admiral will be in danger of a scathing report by me to HQ," I reply coldly.

The door opens. I enter, my head held high with a dignity I did not feel.

To my surprise, the stark white compartment is rather large and comfortable. It is very white. Two rooms, with a door leading to what I would assume to be a sleeping chamber. I am in a sort of sitting room, with square grey-ish couches, and a solid steel table with two chairs. There is no comm station, as comes standard in most rooms, just a pile of PADDs and books upon a small coffee table. It's a far from comfortable atmosphere. Blanker and more basic than the rooms Startfleet provided to their Academy cadets. Luta has shown me pictures of hers. "_Depressing."_

_ "Now…where is…."_

There is a rustle of movement in the corner of my eye.

I turn. Somehow, in my observation of the room, the captive in question has emerged from the bedroom and seated himself at the table in the center of the room.

He appears far different from our last two encounters. His skin is no longer a sickly shade of grey. The thick black locks that had fallen over half of his sharp face were now neatly combed back. The black shirt and trousers are gone, and he's wearing some replicated grey _thing _that is baggy and ugly. Yet, he makes the cheap material appear positively royal in his carriage. Overall, he appears quite polished.

I realize that I've been staring for approximately a minute, completely silent. Gathering my graces, I approach the table.

He observes me, impassive.

Once seated, I fold my hands upon the table.

"I'm Dr. Nejem," I start quietly. "Admiral Marcus requested that I speak with you and try to derive a little more about your background. I'm the closest thing they have to a councilor or psychologist." I smile slightly at this, but it is not returned. He does not appear amused.

I am trying very, very hard not to appear terrified. Something I am perhaps failing at.

He doesn't reply, so I try again. "So, we'll start with names. I've already told you mine. What's yours?"

Instead of answering my question, he tilts back in his seat, regarding me. "You were there. When I first woke. On my ship." These sentences are said in a concise tone, all words pronounced. Though he speaks in Standard, the words are…accented. I do not recognize it, though.

He's waiting for me to respond. "Ah, yes. I was there." I can't resist adding, "I was the only person you didn't incapacitate."

To my surprise, his thin lips quirk. "Yes. I remember."

"Before you passed out you said something. A name. Khan." I pause. There is a sharp vein of remembrance in my mind. There is significance to that name. Memory tinges my thoughts. Something from world history class….."Is that your name?"

The blank mask slips back into place. "No."

"Who are you?"

"John Harrison," he answers shortly.

"Oh, I was mistaken." But somehow I feel I'm not. Still, we're getting somewhere. Relaxing marginally, I breathe. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrison."

"Doctor." He inclines his head. "I think you'll find yourself free of toasting within this session, Dr. Nejem."

If I coloured, I would. But I merely wince.

"You say you are a doctor. A doctor of what?"

"Anthropology," I supply readily. "Specializing in Cultural Studies."

His brows rise. "Intergalactic Cultures?"

"It's a new field. Not much left to discover back on Earth. Starfleet has started with a new program where anthropologists are accompanying explorations to study new cultures and species that are encountered."

"You are young to be a doctor," he observes.

"I got my degree early. Then there wasn't much left to do. So…Starfleet it is." I realize that I'm currently the focus of the conversation, and quickly move towards other topics. Primarily, him. "Are you familiar with Starfleet?"

"I find myself intimately familiar with them now, against my will."

"Was it around when you were alive? You've clearly been on ice for sometime. And, seeing as you're human, I suspect you were once a resident of Earth."

He simply looks at me for several long seconds before replying. "No. Starfleet was not in existence when I lived on Earth."

My hands are still folded on the table. I twist one of my rings, an amethyst-set delicate band of silver. "When do you come from?"

He does not want to answer. The purse of his lips and intensity of his gaze confirms this, but I've been instructed to not let up.

"It is curious," John Harrison says, disinterestly. He's looking away. "That you would be the third person to question me. I wonder at your admiral's strategy. To send in the buffoons, then the high command, and finally the young anthropologist. One must wonder what he's playing at."

"What?" I frown. "I am not the first person to question you?"

He doesn't answer, merely raises his brows.

Why would the Admiral send me in after already having sent two people to question this John Harrison? I am probably less qualified than him and whoever else he sent. What sense does it make to send me, the thorn-in-his-side doctor who was fresh from university and had no knowledge of the universe? I push these questions away for the moment. _"Time for a change in subject."_

"You've quite old," I remark. "I cannot find your ship in any of our records. So, that must mean it predates our records, placing it within the twenty-first century, or it was an off-the records thing. But it is a Terran ship. Our engineers confirmed that. How old are you, John Harrison?"

But I receive no reply. Sighing, I sit back. Delicately as possible, I try to explain my perspective of circumstances.

"Here's the thing. I cannot tell you what Marcus will do if you don't answer these questions. From what you're implying, I am not the first person to come in here and question you, which suggests to me that he's pretty desperate if he's turning to me. I don't like to think that he'd resort to extreme measures, but…I can't trust him. And he doesn't trust you. If you don't start answering his questions soon…I don't know what could happen."

This does not seem to phase Mr. Harrison. He simply looks at me. I gaze back, feeling slightly abashed.

And then, very softly, he begins.

"I am three hundred-and-thirty-four years of age. I was born in India, in the mid Twentieth Century. And I am a genetically superior being. An Augmentation."

"From the Eugenics Wars," I breathe. Unconscious of my actions, I find myself leaning forward. "You were one of the soldiers."

His lips curl back in distaste. "I would hardly describe myself as such. I commanded a battalion until the end of the wars, after which I ruled the Asias."

_"Asia?" _This man was once virtually an emperor. "That was three hundred years ago," I say slowly. There is a name, niggling within my head. It suddenly snaps into to place. "_Khan. _Khan Noonien Singh." It's a name I've heard in a history course or two.

Now I really wish I'd taken a few more history courses. I have no doubt his name is somewhere in the books of time. All I know is that he was in the Eugenics Wars, lead a few great armies, was generally rather bloodthirsty, brutal, etc. Most academic agree that he was one of the greats of the age, for all their opinions are worth. Supposedly, after the wars and after getting thrown out of Asia, he'd taken a crew of about one hundred and disappeared, never to be seen again. "You're the Augment Emperor that was overthrown in the revolts, after the Eugenics Wars. What happened?"

"I was overthrown," he says slowly, as though speaking to a less-than-intellectually-competent child. "The Augments were no longer regarded to be fit for rule." His face is carefully blank, voice distant. "We were displaced. Unaccepted by common human society. There were hundreds of us, but only eighty-three of my fellows remained with me – the others sought to find their own fortune, or died in the resulting coup d'etat. So we left. Turned to the stars. With no other world for us, we decided to put ourselves into cryogenic sleep until the world was ready to accept our kind."

"And that's how we found you. Are…all of them like you? Augments?"

"Yes." He bows his head. "Your Admiral has told me only seventy-two have survived." I cannot discern any kind of emotion. He doesn't continue.

"Was there something wrong with your pods? You would've died shortly if we hadn't been there."

"It's been three hundred years. The ship will only support eighty-four life sources for so long."

"Oh." I bite my lip. "I'm sorry."

Eyes, which had been glazed and distant, find and focus upon me. "You have done nothing."

"That doesn't mean I cannot be sympathetic. You've lost your family."

He seems to freeze. "Yes." His voice is faint. "I have."

"I'm sorry," I repeat.

Khan seems to accept this. His lips upturn in a half smile, slightly mocking. "I can see why your admiral sent you to me. You are adept at encouraging others to speak."

I decide to take this as a compliment. "It is my job."

"You're an anthropologist."

"Yes. That's part of it. I've been employed to do stuff like this. Talk to people. But it's mostly for academic studies and gathering greater understanding for Starfleet. In this case, Mr. Harrison, Marcus is using me to interrogate his captives. I don't think he quite understands my skill set."

This appears to amuse John Harrison. "I believe there is a lot your admiral doesn't understand, I believe."

I find myself agreeing with him, though I do not verbally express this.

"Thank you for speaking with me."

He tilts his head. "Will I see you again?"

"I …." I don't know, truthfully. Finally, I say, "I hope so."

He sits back. "Doctor," John Harrison says formally. "Until we meet again."

**-XXX-**

** I saw Desolation of Smaug today. Its funny Benedict had two roles – it was great fun hearing his voice. Aside from that, the film was brilliant as well, I highly recommend it! **

**Reviews would be brilliant! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Didn't get much a response to the last chapter, but oh well! I hope you enjoyed it, and hope everyone had a safe and merry New Year. 2014 is already shaping up to be quite nice for me. I hope the same goes for you!**

**-XXX-**

He is given a new suit for the trial. It is black with a high collar, remarkably similar to which he arrived wearing. A pair of officers stand at attention outside as he dresses and grooms himself. There is an anticipation in his guards. Today is the day – the day his fate will be determined. Unless he is mistaken, the entire city, nay, country, _world,_ shall be on the edge of their seats, least of all Starfleet.

The one to get the biggest blow. The peacekeeping organization had suffered losses in the hundreds. With only a few dozen civilian lives lost in the power struggle, Starfleet was by far the grieving widow in this case. Khan has little doubt that the court room will be positively packed with the warm, weak bodies of overly-eager humans.

Thick cuffs encase his wrists when he emerges from the cell. One of the officers evaluates him before motioning for the other to go.

They escort him, in silence, to the car. For the first time in weeks, Khan blinks back daylight. It sears his eyes.

After a silent ride, they arrive. A sea of reporters – a near-solid blur of the neutral greys, blues, and blacks the media people preferred – await them on the steps. Along with, Khan notes, six more Starfleet security officers in their dress reds. Immediately after he is removed from the vehicle, he is surrounded – first by the security detail, then the media slugs. His lip gives just he barest curl of disgust.

_"I've no idea what I've done to deserve this," _he sneers to himself as the cameras flash, the journalist going nuts, shouting madly for a statement, a sentence, a word, anything -

Marching up the stairs seems to happen in a flash. He's taken inside, then straight into the chambers.

It is a vast room, styled like a lecture hall with descending seats going roughly a hundred feet into the floor. It is nearly an arena.

Twelve figures sit behind the counter on a dais in the center of the furthest wall. As Terra was the primary victim, the United Federation of Planets was not to be involved in the proceedings. Khan eyes the twelve, noting the ranks upon the collars of their pressed black robes. These were the finest of Starfleet JAG, elevated to the rank of judge. He had not met any in his time as John Harrison. Yet he knows each name. Cristian Wolk. Sarisha Everflee. Linus Marcequet. Unduta Klyete. Yvone Crossly. Jonil Breek. Honor Park. Tyril Goodwin. Day Winterheld. Zhu Di Fuong. Peter Fydorosky. Eveline O'Connell. His eyes pass over every stoic face. Not a scrap of emotion is returned.

The chamber bustles with spectators. Most are of Starfleet, a few are news people, others the usual courtroom junkies, all are here to see justice served.

Particularly, Khan notes, the group descending the stairs now.

Five officers of the _Enterprise_ are making their way to the floor. The good Dr. McCoy, Carol Marcus, Lt. Uhura, Commander Spock, and Captain James T. Kirk. Khan watches, impassive, as they make their way past the crowd, which whispers, the _"ooohs" _and _"ahhs" _floating through the chamber like a wave. All officers have a look of strictness about them. Once they have settled in their seats beside the other eyewitnesses (front, and just off center, level with him), a few curious eyes turn towards him. McCoy gazes upon him with something akin to fury mixed with interest, while Uhura is cool in her regard. Spock, Marcus, and Kirk do not even turn their heads, eyes set firmly on the dais.

Marcus, Khan notes, wears a small black band 'round her silver Starfleet insignia. Part of him feels a tinge of satisfaction knowing he was the one to put it there.

Nearly forty-five minutes after his arrival, there is a loud knock of wood against granite. The trial begins.

Only opening statements are made today. Virtually, nothing more than some ceremonial drivel about the lives lost in Starfleet, et cetera, et cetera. Khan's legal defense is rather quiet, though determined to go out gracefully. Like Khan, they know there is no chance of him getting even a life sentence. Disgust rises in his throat at the spectacle of it all. _"Will the drawn-out process ease their guilt?"_ He sneers to himself. The emotional fragility of humans.

Khan, who stands on the podium on his side of the chambers, does not make a move or a sound over the entire three-hour proceedings. Almost all eyes stay on him throughout. He ignores them. The twelve agree to a recess and reconvening tomorrow. Khan is lead back.

The uneventful nature of the day frustrates him, but it is expected. He expects to bear this for at least a few weeks – at the very least, it is a better occupation than sitting in his cell day in and day out.

"_But for how many days?"_

Weeks, possibly, hopefully not more than a few months. He will pass a nothing less than guilty, he knows. But they shall extend it into something long and torturous – yet another punishment.

The gavel is again struck. Within seconds he is surrounded by red shirts.

He is being escorted up the long stairs once more when he pauses. A figure among the crowd has caught his eye. Somewhere near the top row, still above his party, sits a young woman. She is half-hidden in a veil of burgundy, though he can make out dark eyes and hair easily. Perhaps because he already knows what is there. She wears a modest cream-coloured dress of a kurti style that drapes elegantly, giving little hint to her figure. Sitting in the back, she does not stand out. Regardless, he can see her. Recognize her.

"_Alya." _

Her eyes shine with what he thinks might be unshed tears. His gaze stays upon her, but he does not speak, does not gesture. One of the security officers places a meaningful hand upon his shoulder, urging him on silently. Khan reluctantly moves on. When he passes, she turns. People flood after him, push up the stairs like animals to feed, but Alya remains in her row. Khan does not look back. Regardless, he can all but feel her gaze follow after

In the car, he stares out the window. What had been a sunny morn has turned to an overcast afternoon. The greying bay city passes his window by sluggishly. Soon, the mist will claim the city. Sitting back, Khan wonders if she's back to living in the city again, or if this was merely a daytrip for sentimentality's sake. After all, they had started this journey together over two years ago. It would be fitting for her to see it through to the end.

The last time he had seen her was the evening after the initial attack. Shortly before he had left for Kronos. She had been so angry, terrified, even, yet had stopped to comfort him anyways. He had not wanted to say goodbye in such a way – actually, had not planned on saying goodbye at all. A fear of regret led him to divert from the plan. Someone had to know…someone _needed _to know that this was not some thoughtless act of terrorism. That is was a cause.

He wonders if he shall see her tomorrow.

Part of him hopes so. She will provide the relief of distraction.

**-XXX-**

** This was a little short, I know, but I wanted to get just a taste of the trial. Reviews would be awesome! **


	6. Chapter 6

**I realized before my last update that I'd forgotten to list my characters. I feel like that has probably made a big difference, haha.**

**Thank you for your lovely reviews and support. Feedback is the best thing ever! **

**Has anyone been enjoying the holiday movie releases? I've seen Catching Fire and Desolation of Smaug, but I'm dying to watch Saving Mr. Banks, Frozen, and Anchorman 2. Desolation of Smaug has sent me on a bit of a LOTR kick, which is weird as I've only seen Fellowship and the first Hobbit, and I've never even touched the books! Dabbling a bit, but we'll see if anything comes of it….**

**Enjoy!**

**-XXX-**

**2258**

"Tell me about the others," I say the next time we meet. Marcus, upon reading my report, latched on to the mention of Khan's still-stuck-in-cryogenic-state crew. I've been ordered to seek details.

The Augment's brows rise briefly. "What would you wish to know? They are my crew."

"Are they like you? As strong? As intelligent?"

"I should hope so." He eyes me. "I am aware of what you are doing."

"If you weren't, I should think you terrible stupid. Help me. I'm your best shot at getting you any empathy. Believe or not, I am not a fan of keeping you locked up."

He grunts.

"Can they be awoken?"

"I don't know."

"With the right technology," I muse. "It could –"

He cuts me off, leaning across the table. "I. Do. Not. Know."

Face inches from mine, I can hear his breath, smell the scent of stale soap and sweat upon him. My eyes flicker up to meet his. Dead, cold, blackness meets me. _"Do not push me." _Unyielding, the augment stares me down until I sink against the back of my chair. For the second time since we've met, I feel utterly, undeniable, plainly terrified.

"Of course," I say quietly.

Without saying much else, I take my leave.

**-XXX-**

"I should think you would be named for this profession, Doctor," John Harrison drawls when I see him next.

"Excuse me?"

He's been here nearly four weeks. I imagine he's growing quite bored. Therefore, he's placing his energies on being a thorn in my side. We've had another two meetings, both less fruitful than the first. Today I need to find something relevant for Marcus – or risk stricter measures being placed on our prisoner. I fear he's due to be made "useful" soon enough, if my last conference with the admiral was any indication.

"He's a technical genius, Dr. Nejem," Marcus had said. "With his knowledge of weaponry, we could put Starfleet on the cutting edge. Find the proper motivation for me. It's time Mr. Harrison made himself useful."

But I've no clue what kind of motivation he might mean. I don't understand why we cannot just let Harrison make his own way in the world. Well, I do understand – he has no understanding of this new modern age – but I do not know why Marcus feel compelled to _use _theman. My best bet is to convince Harrison that joining Starfleet is to his best advantage. The question is how. I don't even think Starfleet is all it is hype up to be. How am I supposed to convince this several-hundred-year-old, highly intellectual, super-human that becoming a member of this intergalactic peacekeeping military body will be the best direction for him?

The positive, I suppose, would be that if Khan is moved off this ship, he might be allowed more freedoms.

"Heavenly Star," Harrison says. "Alya Nejem. A beautiful name. Yet, you claim not to want to explore the stars."

"Well, I never quite said that." The last time we met, I had admitting to seeing my life going in a different direction. "I just said it was not what I'd initially wanted."

"You were named for the sky, yet you wish not to reach into her depths? Why are you here, doctor, if not to explore? Why choose the stars instead of a comfortable office on earth?"

I shift. "We're not here to talk about me." The chairs at his table are becoming progressively more and more uncomfortable. John Harrison watches me, brows raised, an _"I'm waiting," _expression on his sharp features. Relenting, I say, "To make my name. There seems to be nothing left to study on Terra. Out here, there is still much to be studied, discovered. I wish to establish myself as one of the first cultural anthropologists to study the other inhabitants of the galaxy."

"Why?"

"Because it is important," I say simply. "To comprehend the culture of another is to better understand ourselves. Besides, it will improve relations between planets. Peace could be possible – if we understand one another."

He regards me. "But that is not your noble mission." It is not a question. "You wish for legacy."

Anger rises within me. This is too familiar of the judgment I have received from colleagues and family alike. "I spent six years on my degree," I hiss. "Judge me if you will but I –"

His eyes crinkle, and a rumbling sound comes from his throat. For the first time, I hear Khan's laughter.

"You shall find no judgment from me, doctor," he chuckles. "I am impressed. Few will admit such blatant ambitions. Most will crow on about helping others, improving the lives of every babbling orphan and weeping widow. But you – you are honest. You strive for legacy." His tone takes on a strong note of approval. "Ambition is no fault, Dr. Nejem."

"Says you. Few would agree."

"Most people are fools." He states this simply.

I don't know I necessarily agree with this statement. Uncomfortable, but doing my best to appear confident, I shake my head.

"How is it you recognized my name?" I ask. "Are you familiar with Arabic?"

"Reasonably."

"Why?"

"One ought to know many things," he answers cryptically. "If one is to be a leader of men."

"Tell me about that. About being emperor. What lead you to it? I mean, the history books all mention the Wars, yes, but what put you in that position?"

He seems to shrug. "I was born to be a leader. Designed," John pronounces slowly. "Out of generation, I was the one specifically engineered towards command. Knowing this, there was little conflict among myself and my cohorts."

I blink. "Designed? As in, they combined particular genes to create someone more apt to effective leadership?"

"Indeed."

I have to force myself to ignore his smugness. "Interesting…" I say through slightly gritted teeth. "So. Asia. What was that like?"

John smiles. "It was big."

He launches into his initial advancement on India and Pakistan, followed by Tibet, the Islands, Indonesia, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam. China and Mongolia held out the longest, and he was only able to ever claim a few slivers to Russia. I listen intently. I almost resort to leaning on my elbows, but I remember myself soon enough to straighten my posture. His tales of bloody battles, sieges, victory feasts, the beheading of disobedient generals, leave me enthralled. Terribly distracted. I don't really take notes. Marcus, it seems, might just strike out today.

I highly doubt I'll ever be able to convince the admiral that our "guest" is anything less than extraordinary. We all know he's got an impressive mind. According to Cooper, who's in with the engineering department, the _Botany Bay's _technology, despite being a few hundred years old, is awe-inspiring in its clever design. Besides this, the history books say that Khan's knowledge on war strategy is something many modern generals would piss themselves to hear. He's still referenced in our military academies in strategy sessions. No, the admiral will likely keep him until he lives past his usefulness – and who knows when that might be.

Cooper doesn't really know that Khan (or, as Cooper refers to him as, "psycho icicle") is still on our ship. He assumes that he's being held off ship, on a base we passed by a few weeks ago, and that Marcus receives updates from medical crews there. Really, only a handful of people on the ship know that we're housing this man. And out of that, an even smaller portion know who he actually is.

I was unsurprised in seeing that Marcus was manipulating a man in John Harrison's state. The admiral has always struck me as a rather ruthless man. He's essentially the dark side of Starfleet I have come to recognize in the last several months. Ambition for legacy drives this man. Beyond responsibility, beyond anything, he is always looking out for his legacy – what he'll be, one hundred years from now. Though, I am sure he has ways of deluding himself into believing all that he does he does in the act of "duty."

The first time I noted this was my first visit to his office. It is a white place, filled with glass-topped tables, slick chairs, and high windows. The rows upon rows of leather-bound books (real books, not PADDs) along the bookshelves behind his long desk caught my eye. Skimming my eyes along the titles I saw the names of memorable generals and commanders – Lee, Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Rommel, among others. At first I attributed the names to a lover of history.

But the next shelf of medals and ribbons convinced me otherwise.

A man concerned in his legacy would certainly wish to display his honors along side the names of those who has reached immortality in the nature of their deeds.

When John stops talking he watches me quietly. "Your thoughts are elsewhere," he observes.

"No, no," I say vaguely. "I've been listening. I'm just thinking of the future."

"Oh?" This has peaked his interest. "And what element of it?"

"You," I say thoughtlessly.

He waits.

"You're a man out of time. I just wonder how things will end up for you. We can't exactly keep you here forever."  
A dullness enters his eyes. "You might be surprised," he says shortly. "Besides, I won't be going anywhere without my crew."

"You may not have a choice."

This turns him to brooding. "I'll not leave without them." His eyes are dark. He pushes himself away from the table, standing swiftly.

"I'm sure they'll be alright," I assure him. "They're just being kept under observation. Cryogenics is still something of a scientific interest. We've not used it for hundreds of years. It is something of a lost science, I suppose. I'm sure Marcus has a team studying them to figure the best method of revival."

He doesn't quite believe me. But Khan lets it pass. "Are you in the mood to play chess?"

**-XXX-**

The meeting is a surprise to him. When the pair of security men enter his living space to inform him of the activity, Khan takes pause. He is unaware of what change might have encouraged the admiral to personally take an audience with himself. He had given Alya nothing of value to report, absolutely nothing useful. What could the admiral be playing at?

The two men lead him through the maze of hallways. Khan silently noted the route, and all identifiable chambers they passed. It is the first time he's ever been transported consciously through the ship. He notes medbay, an activities court, and a few offices before they enter the elevator. From there they are transported directly to Marcus's office.

In his Starfleet-issue grey baggy suit, the augment ought to have felt a bit cowed by the admiral, covered in ribbons and medals. Yet Khan sat, impassive, before the desk. The two men observed one another silently.  
"Mr. Harrison," Marcus begins. "I trust you have enjoyed your stay with us."

"It has been most enlightening."

"I am sure…." The admiral allows roughly. "Dr. Nejem seems to think you are well-adjusted to the environment. I am impressed, Mr. Harrison. Most in your place, I feel, would not do so well."

He falls silent. Khan recognizes that this is where he ought to speak. With nothing to say, he simply looks upon Marcus. This clearly agitates the man, who shifts forward in his seat. His fingers trace the edge of a PADD sitting square in the center of the desk.

"She seems to think you're capable of existing in regular society."

"I have always been quick to adapt. Sir."

"Yes, yes, you are quiet adept." The admiral examines the augment before him for several long seconds before continuing. "The question now is, what shall we do with you? It won't do to simply send you out into the world, Mr. Harrison. Oh, no, we owe far more to you than that. Starfleet will not abandon you."

"Then what do you suggest, sir?"

"Employment." Marcus lets the word hang in the air, heavy as cigar smoke, and just as transparent. "I can offer you a position within one of our most classified levels of engineering. I've seen your doodles, Mr. Harrison." The PADD is pushed across the desk. "And they are quiet impressive."

The display shows a collection of sketches he had made for Alya once, when she had a question about some historic technology she was unfamiliar with. He had drawn these to make explaining easier. She had commented on his steady hand and even strokes. Now he wonders if she shared the drawing with Marcus.

He wants to believe she didn't.

"You're got a great deal of creativity. Limitless, some might say. You seem to…know no boundaries…."

There. That's what it was. The augment stiffens.

"I am…rather inventive, I suppose," he responds quietly.

"Yes, that you are, Mr. Harrison. I'm more than certain we can find a place for you in Starfleet."

"I look forward to it. Sir."

In his lap, the hands that were clasped together were so tight as to make his veins pop out. The blue stood out against the near-translucent white of his skin. Khan only clutches tighter.

**-XXX-**

Somewhere within the next week I manage to have lunch with Cooper. Lately, I've been impossibly busy, and it's been a chore trying to find the time to meet with him and Luta. It just so happens we're all off shift, so we meet in the mess for a disappointing lunch of replicated pot roast.

"…So I tell him, 'Lieutenant, that's not a Yerbian Lava Slug, it's a Alfresk Swamp Leech! Then it came out how he'd visited a brothel on our last stop, and he'd slept with an Alfreski girl. Well, that'll be the last time he frequents once of those joints. The boy is lucky to still have use of his –"

"Stop," I say loudly. "No."

Luta is laughing into her mashed potatoes. Her lips quiver with a fevered amusement. "Oh no, let him go on Alya!"

"Only if he changes the subject," I grouse. "That is sick, Cooper."

He shrugs. "Part of the job. Being roomed with something as sick as first-time-out petty officers tends to put one at risk of such encounters."

"Why didn't he visit medbay?" Luta whispers.

"Hell if I know. I'm no doctor, but they keep coming to me." Cooper stabs a soggy carrot. "What've you been up to, Alya?"

"No much. Surveying any planets we encounter – " Which hadn't been many. " – and keeping up my notes."

"Do you know what you're going to do once we're Earth-side?"

This is something I've been considering lately. We're due to be home in less than a week, and I'm without a mission, and, more importantly, any kind of assignment.

"Compile my findings, I guess," I say. "Maybe request another assignment. It's a bit up in the air, being the first person to do this, you know. "

"I can't imagine." Luta shakes her head. "That's why I joined, for the consistency. The paycheck is good too, but I need direction in my life."

"Yeah. I definitely would like that." After years of school, moving from university to university, I'm beginning to long for something like settling down. Adventures out are nice and all, but I do feel a battle within myself to give up these dreams of legacy to stay Earth side in some boring office-y or teaching job.

"Have you heard anything else about the psycho who put me in medbay for a week?" Coop's eyes glint.

"No." I spear something that might resemble meat. "Who is up for trying the rice pudding?"

**-XXX-**

"What do you mean transferred?" I ask the guardsman. "What the hell is going on? I was not informed of this."

"It's a need-to-know, Dr. Nejem, and apparently you didn't need to know," the brutish man tells me bluntly. "Mr. Harrison has been moved to a new facility to prepare for assimilation into modern society."

"On whose orders?"

"If you wish to know more, I suggest you seek an appointment with Admiral Marcus."

I am left in the corridor, alone and fuming.

I had arrived to find the door normally guarded by a pair of red shirts to be barren. The room beyond was unlocked and empty. So, of course, I cornered the head of security when I next saw him – which was approximately fifteen minutes later, as I was stalking through the hallways searching for a clue as to why my charge was missing.

Complete floored, I return to my office. It's not so much of an office but a closet. Still, it functions as work space. Sinking to my desk, I shake my head. _Transferred._ As though he's some piece of equipment. Or worse – theirs.

Somehow, I find myself in the lift, moving upwards. Towards Marcus's office. I step off the lift, still in a bit of a daze, to greet the admiral's secretary. Ellen, who is in her mid-fifties and has been with the admiral supposedly since he was a captain (apparently captains required secretaries back in the heyday), looks up at me from behind the lenses of her square glasses. She's a vaguely unpleasant person – which suits the position, I suppose. I lift my chin, gazing back squarely as I approach the desk.

"Dr. Nejem," she says shortly. "I don't believe you have an appointment with the admiral –"

"I don't," I agree. "But I'd still care to see him if he isn't too busy."

"I'm afraid he's always busy."

"Still, it couldn't hurt to check, could it?"

For an eternity, she stares at me, painted-on eyebrows raised. I let my eyes flicker suggestively to the comm button. With a huff, she dials.

_"Why ever would someone bring their secretary with them on diplomatic mission?" _ I wonder as I look about the waiting room. _"What use is she? Well, keeping people out, obviously…."_

"He'll see you," Ellen informs me, breaking me away from my less-than-pressing thought. "But do be quick about it. The admiral is a busy man."

I don't respond. I brush past the desk for the double-doors leading to the admiral's office. They slide open without protest.

Marcus isn't at his desk, but stands before the bay window, near the small bar installed along his bookshelf. A glass of something amber – probably scotch – sits in his hand loosely.

"Dr. Nejem. To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?" His tone says that while my presence may be a surprise, it is not a welcome one.

"Khan," I say briskly. "Where is he?"

Marcus's eyebrows rise. He turns back to the window, considering for a long moment. "I'm surprised you wish to know. Weren't you against involvement with him in the first place?"

"Yes, I was. But those feels have clearly since changed as you've made him my charge –"

"Your responsibility for Mr. Singh is now terminated, Dr. Nejem. Starfleet appreciates the obvious care and dedication you put forth in rehabilitating him and adjusting him to his surroundings, and we saw that it was time for him to move on. Take the next step."

Suddenly, I feel rather cold. "Which would be…?"

"We all agreed that he's adapted well enough. You yourself put it in your last report that he's been calm, adjusted. So, we offered him a position. Can't send a man like that out on his own…it would be uncharitable."

The cold has now sunken beyond my skin into my bones. "Admiral Marcus, I said he was adapting, _not _that he was by any means stable! Historically, he has proven to be a threat to our species. He was created in service of us and turned again his makers, he loathes our kind!"

"Which is while we'll be keeping him quite secure," the admiral assures me.

I grit my teeth. "Admiral Marcus. He is a victim of circumstance. You'd do best to let him live his life in solitude, or better yet, return him to his people. This isn't a matter of Starfleet interests."

"I believe I shall be the judge of what is and is not of Starfleet interest," he replies coldly. "You've become too attached, Dr. Nejem. I thought you scientist types were supposed to keep yourselves above it all."

I grit my teeth and hold my breath. "With all do respect, _sir, _I thought you Starfleet types were supposed to up hold humanitarian values. Khan has done nothing wrong, he's no prisoner of ours!"

"Doctor," he warns sharply.

"And what of his crew? Where are you keeping them? They've done no wrong, you can't just maintain custody of seventy-two people –"

"Dr. Nejem," Marcus booms. He isn't use to people disagreeing. Agitated, the admiral turns to fully look at me. "I am making the best call for Starfleet, and for the human race. Whether or not you can comprehend the implications of that matters not to me – I didn't get in the position I am in today by making mistakes. You are dismissed."

"And you," I say, head high. "Are making a mistake."

It was not the best comeback, to be fair. But I swept from the office boiling, ready to take on the whole of Starfleet.

**-XXX-**

** Ah, well, that was fun. Marcus, being an asshole….It's genuinely hard for me to write him, as we only really got to see him in an asshole-like light, but I also want him to be a little more charming, or at least, softer with a commanding presence….hmmm….**

** Well, the wheels are being set in motion. **

** Questions, comments, concerns, I'll answer them all! Reviews are a glorious thing to receive so please, fill my inbox! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Wow, apparently listing characters makes a real difference. **

**I am honored by the follows and feedback I have received so far. This chapter is not as exciting as some, though I hope it lends more insight into the situation. So far I'm up to about 15 chapters, with perhaps another 8 to go. There's some big stuff coming. **

**-XXX-**

**2259, Autumn**

"…and you shall find, your Honorables, that Khan Noonien Singh, known as John Harrison to Starfleet records, took a vendetta against this organization. Whether that vendetta was justified or not is not why we are here today, but rather…."

A week into his trial, Khan is painfully bored. They have not yet – and likely never shall – called for his council. His defense, already knowledgeable in their defeat, have not sought to speak with him, either. Any other person might be lost in the babble of courtroom speak, however, Khan, being familiar with the flowery language of a royal court from the time of his emperorship, can follow rather easily. And it bores him.

There are only three things that interest him, and two of them occur when he is coming and going: seeing Alya's face in the crowd. Always veiled (strangely, he's never known her to do that), always resigned (except for her eyes, which frequently appear too-bright and too-wide), she sits in the back, away from the gaze of those who might know her. He knows for a fact that she is familiar with the good Dr. Leonard McCoy. So far, she has attended every day. He cannot always see her – some days she sits away from the stairs – but he knows she is there, can pick the very _feel _of her out of a crowd.

She is one of a very few people associated with Starfleet that he would regret hurting.

He doesn't want her here. For a variety of very good reasons. She is a distraction. It will distress her. He doesn't want to be disgraced so in her eyes. And yet, he dearly wishes that he could start and end each of these days with the sight of her, as selfish as that wish may be.

It seems fitting that she is here to watch him towards his doom, After all, she was there when he woke up.

The third is Commander Spock – specifically the way his body orients itself to Nyota Uhura. He takes note of this, and keeps it close on his mind for the day when such information might come of use.

**-XXX-**

Trials are nothing like what I saw on TV when I was a child – not the rushing, dramatic affairs of who-done-it. They are boring. Especially when you already know the verdict. Khan will be found guilty; it would be a joke to assume otherwise.

Initially, I didn't want to go. I knew it was going to be a spectacle. Besides, I have no wish to see someone I had once called a friend chained and displayed before the whole of Starfleet like some kind of circus animal. He's done wrong, yes. But to create any kind of charade of a trial is not just ridiculous, but cruel. He knows his fate – why prolong it.

To my understanding, it was Kirk – golden-hearted, noble Kirk – who had insisted on a true and just trial. To be fair, he probably did so because of his honorable values. But I have no doubt that the Starfleet JAG saw it as a way to sooth Khan sympathizers (they are few, but they do exist) and generally appease the media, who had been dying for a glimpse of the augment. Besides, it would clear their own conscience when they eventually put a wronged man down. Two birds with one stone.

Little disgusts me more than the stupid ceremony of the court – rising to honor the twelve, reciting the declaration, etc. I've hated every second of this trial. Though, probably not nearly as much as Khan has.

The only thing that might disgust me more is the way the journalist-types hound him. They flock on the stairs early, maybe an hour before we're scheduled to start. The six redshirts that consist of Khan's escort march down the steps about ten minutes before the augment's arrival. This sends the media people into a buzzed frenzy of excitement. Then when the car appears, they swoop in, eager for a word. When Khan steps out a babble of questions burst forth. This happens every day, despite the fact that he is locked on all sides by guards, and that he has never, not once, acknowledged those harpies. But they keep coming….

To get a word from him, just one word, would be such a paycheck. Yet he never even gives them a bow of the head, let alone a single syllable off of his lips.

So far, the only person I've even seen him acknowledge would be myself and the senior crew of the _Enterprise. _Interestingly enough, they've not been too keen on looking at him. Marcus, Spock, and Kirk all prefer to act as though he does not exist. Even when they take the stand.

Spock is first to testify. His cool monotone easily fills the hall. He recounts his chase with Khan with some prodding.

"My captain was dead," he says flatly when asked about the vicious nature of his assault against the augment, which has been caught on the CCTV cams spread across the city. "I was naturally emotionally distressed. Captain Kirk is a good captain and a good friend. We have been through much together. I believe it is a natural response to be angry upon receiving word of a friend's passing."

"But you did not just 'receive word' of Mr. Kirk's death, did you Commander Spock?" the defense asks. "You were there. You watched him die."

The Vulcan nods slowly. "That is correct."

"So you were very angry."

"Not enough to warrant killing Mr. Singh. I was merely doing what duty required of me. He was terrorizing the city. Incapacitating Mr. Singh with a standard phaser is simply impossible with his augment physiology. "

From what I can see of Kirk – which is little more than the back of his head – he shifts uncomfortably.

Bones is called up the next day. He testifies to the advanced nature of Khan's blood, detailing the specific genomes that allow for his strength and fast-healing. He also describes the way in which he saved Kirk through refined injections of the augment's blood.

"It was one of those damn tribbles," he says. "I couldn't very well test the properties of some superhuman blood on any of the staff, so my only alternative was to use tribbles. We've got quite the supply of them, and they make for descent lab rats. The thing was dying, anyways, and it was beginning to perk up around the time Kirk was roasted by that radiation. By using Khan's blood, I was able to engineer a serum with remarkable healing abilities. It's like a small army of microsurgeons. In three days, Kirk was entire healed. Completely free of radiation."

"Do you believe Admiral Marcus was aware of the properties of Mr. Signh's blood."

"How should I know?" McCoy snapped. "I wasn't exactly personal with the man and his under-the-table Section 31 scheming."

"You were asked to review the surviving records of Section 31 as it pertained to your medical knowledge. Did you not see any tests, or experiments, involving Mr. Singh? Do you think the Admiral was planning on utilizing Mr. Singh's blood?"

"I'd say not, considering we didn't see any kind of attempts at creating such a serum as I made. When reviewing the records from 31's chemical and medical departments I saw no such thing."

This was coming from the prosecution, who was apparently had the agenda of making Marcus look like less of a bad guy. Which is precisely why Carol had been asked to testify. She takes the stand next. At first cold and resolute, she is soon tearfully recounting what occurred on the bridge of the _Vengeance._

"…and then he went to the chair and…and he held Daddy's – I mean, Admiral Marcus's...head. And he - he broke his neck." She takes a long pause. The entire courtroom seems to hold their breath, entranced. My heart aches for Carol Marcus. This is a cruel way to recount the death of one's father. She goes on, after a minute. As time goes on, her composure is regained, and she speaks powerfully on the matter of the missiles.

"My father was aware of those people," she tells the prosecution coldly. "He knew they were being stored within the missiles, which is exactly why he sent them on the _Enterprise._"

"Did you know?"

"No, which is why I had myself assigned to the _Enterprise _when she was sent to capture Khan. I knew there was something off about them, and I wanted to find out what."

"Do you believe your father truly intended for the missiles to be used? Or was he just hoping to bluff Khan into submission."

Her eyes are stones. She has no mercy. "I do not believe the admiral would have send Captain Kirk and the crew of the _Enterprise _into hostile territory armed with 72 missiles if he did not intend on their use. I believe the ship was purposely damaged so as to leave it in enemy territory. I believe he underestimated Captain Kirk as well as Mr. Singh."

This sends the entire chamber into fervent whispers. The gavel must be struck four times before any order can be met. Carol is dismissed. She takes her seat between Kirk and Uhura. Even from the back, I can make out both of her hands being reached for and squeezed. Bones sends her an encouraging smile. I feel a little more relieved to see her comforted. This is undoubtedly why the _Enterprise _has survived all of those _nearlys _and _almosts _– the crew supports one another.

The twelve call for a recess for the day. A rumor begins to buzz about the audience that Kirk shall be the one to speak tomorrow. He's been just as silent towards the media as Khan. This shall be interesting.

I wait as people being filing past. Now that we're a week into the trial, the novelty of watching the imprisoned augment has been lost. I don't mind this in the least – the bustle of the nosy journalists and the hyped-up cadets was getting rather old.

Below, on the floor of the arena-like chambers, the augment is being released from the podium. Eight redshirts surround him, creating a barrier of bodies between the superhuman and the crowd, like a pack of wolves protecting their young. It's almost comical.

Just in the seven days before, when Khan reaches the stairs, his eyes stop being impassive rocks of ice and turn upwards. Searching. For me.

I wait. When the gaze alights on me, I tug on the edge of my veil. The fabric ripples lightly. Khan stares. Just as he did in the seven days previous. And, just as before, I simply look back. I suppose I could impart some comfort or support, but I always find myself stilled.

He passes. I turn, watching until his back disappears over the crest of the seats. For several seconds I wait. Then, I take up my bags and depart. I pick my way through the people, down the stone steps, and onto the sidewalk. Outside, I pull at my veils nervously. I don't cities much.

It takes me a minute or two to hail a car. "Starfleet Justice Department," I tell the driver. He glances back, but offers no comment. I sink against the seat. Clearly, I do not possess the lawyer vibe.

**-XXX-**

The Department of Justice is yet another imposing building on Starfleet's expansive campus. Tall, ancient, with Grecian pillars and marble steps it gleams, white and regal in the afternoon light. The fifteen-minute drive from the courthouse to this place felt like an eternity, yet my nerves are still not gathered. I swallow deeply before exiting the car. The cabbie offers me his luck. I thank him, glad I tipped well.

Once inside, I locate a map attached to the nearest wall. I find the offices of Schwartz, tracing my finger along the path I must take, committing it to memory. Rearranging my veil again, I set off to find the offices of Khan's defense lawyer. I only get lost twice before I find the place. Which is fortunate, because Schwartz arrives just as I do.

He gives me a curious glance as he trudges in, but he otherwise does not acknowledge me. It's only when his secretary has discreetly messaged him and received the go-ahead that I am allowed in. His office is just as I would imagine as lawyer's to look like – dark wood, heavy books, piles of PADDs. He probably dreamed of an office like this in his days at law school. Though, judging from the bags beneath his eyes and stressful tremor of his voice, he had not imagined the pains of the job.

I sit down on a less-than-polished leather winged-backed armchair. Lightly, I lift my veil. The room is stuffy, and I do not wish for my meaning to be lost behind the distraction of a veil. Schwartz watches me, fiddling with a stylus.

"Dr. Nejem," he says politely when I have settled. Clearly having no clue why I am here or, really, who I even am, he's tentative in his greeting. "To what do I own the pleasure?"

"Mr. Schwartz. You've been leading the defense team for Captain Singh."

"That is correct," he answers curiously. "And to my understanding, you were once acquainted with him. Or, perhaps, Lieutenant John Harrison. You were even there when he woke up."

"Yes." I pause. "I was. We are quite acquainted."

His brow furrows at my use of the present tense. "I'm sorry, doctor, I must ask – why are you here? Do you wish to testify on Mr. Singh's behalf?"

"I doubt there is little I can tell you that you do not already know. You have my friend Dr. Cooper Detharow. He was present at our discovery of the _Botany Bay._ There is little I can provide that he cannot also tell you." I tap my fingers against the dusty leather. I straighten. "I'm actually here to request an audience with Mr. Singh."

Schwartz splutters. "Excuse me?"

"I'd like to see Khan," I say patiently. "He is allowed visitors, correct? Under the prisoner's rights edict, section eighteen, paragraph 4, sentence C, all under probational Starfleet custody are allowed supervised visitations at the discretion of their legal council. That would be you."

The lawyer stares. "You wish to see Khan Noonien Singh? Is this some kind of a joke?"

I stiffen, though I was prepared for this disbelief. "Yes, I want to see him, and no, it is no joke. As you know, we are acquainted. I merely wish to speak to him before his…." I drift off, leaving room for Schwartz's imagination. "…before we've no longer the time. It's business."

He looks unconvinced. "Business of what nature?"

"Research," I say without missing a beat. "I need some feedback. There is little recorded augment history, Mr. Schwartz, and if we are to understand their mindset and culture, we might one day successfully revive and integrate the others."

Still uneasy, the lawyer places both hands on his desk. "I don't know, doctor. He's a volatile person, likely far different from the man you knew –"

The thing is, Khan and John are not so far off from one another. But I don't wish to tell Schwartz this, so I listen as he warns me of the changes the augment has gone through, how he's likely near a state of madness, how his anger controls his every motivation. Schwartz is, to some extent, entirely correct – Khan has been consumed by fury – though it's not quite so overwhelming. Augments feel _big. _Very much like Vulcans. And, like Vulcans, they have formed an enormous amount of restrain. They can reign in almost everything. Even with Khan's loathing, he's still in control, still himself.

While Schwartz talks I nods, my mind drifting off. I give a descent charade of being attentive. When he stops, I shift.

"I understand. But I need to see him. I think you underestimate his control. He is mad –" I agree when I see the lawyer's mouth open in further protest. "—but he is stable. Please, sir, all I ask is for a few minutes. Besides, would it not give him ease to see a familiar face? Your client is a dead man walking. Surely he might be allowed to see someone who is less-than-eager to see his demise?"

"A friendly face?" he asks carefully, examining my face. I gaze back, attempting to make my expression impassive. "May I ask, Dr. Nejem, what are you to Mr. Singh?"

I frown. "I fail to see how the definition of our relationship is relevant. I need to speak to him on matters of research."

But Schwartz is stoic. My frown deepens.

"We're little more than friends, Mr. Schwartz. I was there when he came into our world. I was the one to show him how to use PADDs, I saw him trying to find his way in a world that moved forward 300 years without him. I feel a sympathy towards him because of this, you must understand. What Marcus did was rather scummy in my eyes, and Khan's actions – while inexcusable – were ignited by Marcus's choices. He was practically driven to retaliate. I don't agree with what he has done. But I don't feel like he had much of an option in the matter. He is a man who is always going to extremes. When you threaten the family of a man like that, I should think you could expect him to behave rather dramatically. That's my relationship to Khan Noonien Singh, Mr. Schwartz. That's how I see him."

The lawyer stares at me for nearly a full minute. "Oh, I wish you would take the stand," he finally murmurs. "That speech of yours might buy him a little sympathy with the twelve."

"It wouldn't be enough."

"I know." He sighs. "I will try, Dr. Nejem, but I can offer you no promises. I shall contact you within the week."

I leave him with my comm number as well as my address. Then I leave, going straight back to my apartment. Tomorrow is another day at court.

**-XXX-**

I've never seen people as attentive as when Kirk takes the stand. The golden-haired, ocean-eyed man sits on the stand with great bearings. He does not look in Khan's direction once. The crowd whispers.

"Did you initially believe Mr. Singh on the matter of his identity, and the threats Marcus had taken against him?"

"No," Kirk states. "I didn't. But I take everything with a grain of salt. We investigated. When we did realize that Khan was telling us the truth, we still could not trust him. That's how he became temporarily incapacitated on the _Vengeance._"

"And why did you not trust him?"

Here, Kirk's eyes seem to almost harden. "Because he was a desperate man."

Khan gazes upon his rival with crystal eyes. I'm squeezing my hands in my lap. Today, while ultimately not going to contribute to the verdict, is one to go down in history. The hero Captain Kirk finally giving his account. I think the only thing that would put people on the edge of their seats even more would be Khan's testimony. Which is far out of the realm of possibility.

When asked if he understood the augment's motives, Kirk frowned.

"You threatened the man's family, if he is a true leader, he will do anything with in his power to remove them from danger." The captain pauses. "You cannot fault a man that."

Having heard myself virtually paraphrased from the speech I gave Schwartz yesterday, I realize that I like Kirk. All of his nobility isn't just hype.

He leaves the stand to thunderous applause.

Cooper, who I had not seen arrive, claims the stand next, but the crowd won't settle for him. The gavel is struck numerous times in an attempt to call order. I can scarcely hear my friend, but isn't of much consequence – I know what happened when Khan awoke. Instead of focusing on his words, I watch Cooper's demeanor. It's been almost six months since we've seen one another. He looks tired.

I think the twelve have had enough dramatics for the day, as they call recess early. We're told Sulu will be testifying tomorrow. I wonder at the games these lawyers are playing, as it does not seem that they are going in any kind of chronological order with their witnesses. There is no plot, no story being presented, merely scattered facts.

"_It's because they do not dare imagine a chance of freedom," _my mind whispers. They're here for appearances. Not to try to establish the guilt or innocence of a man.

**-XXX-**

**Ah, things are progressing in the trial! We won't be back here at the next update, however, returning back in the timeline to 2258. **

**Do I have any LOTR fans out there? Tolkien lovers? After seeing Desolation of Smaug I have been seduced into writing a few pieces for it. They might find themselves published sometime in the coming months. **

**Feedback would be splendid! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the delay – I just returned to campus and had a birthday, so things were a little hectic! **

**I greatly appreciated the amount of followers this has gained, and the support I'm receiving. However, there hasn't been a whole lot of feedback. Just a few words would mean the world to me! **

**We're jumping back a little ways with this chapter! Post events of the first movie, sort of in the middle of both films. **

**-XXX-**

**Spring 2258**

"Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you," the woman tells me kindly before she leaves me to drift between the aisles. "We have our computerized database along every few rows, but I know sometimes finding the exact thing can be tricky. The call numbers can be a little long."

"Thank you," I say, turning slightly from the row I'd begun examining. "I'll keep that in mind."

She smiles, then leaves me to it. The archives have taught their employees well. Nothing is more appreciate by me that a helpful, warm archivist who knows when to leave you to your work. While I allow myself to become fully immersed in the effort of searching, I consider how thankful I am to have found someone who is genuinely friendly for the first time in a while. Leaving the _Union, _I'd become rather disenchanted with Starfleet as a whole.

After my incident with Admiral Marcus, it was a few days before we were Earthside. I'd hopped ship just as soon as I could. Though, I missed the chance to spend much time with Luta and Coop – that is one thing I regret. Last time I'd had a comm session with Luta I'd promised to find a weekend suited for a trip to the East Coast. I feel bad for leaving so quickly. But I didn't think I could stand to be around HQ much longer than I needed to be. I debriefed less than a day after we landed, more than eager to take my two months of leave before my second venture into space. Then, I headed up to Portland to visit with my advisor.

**-XXX-**

While the overcast skies and drizzle excite me, the prospective of catching up with an old friend and mentor has me buzzing with joy the moment I stepped off the transporter. I'm only in town for a day – any longer and I'll be behind on my packing schedule. But it's plenty of time to visit the old uni.

I sit in on one of his classes. From the back of the lecture hall, I listen to him abuse freshman and ramble about the importance of understanding stratography. When class was over, I sidle up to him.

"You'll be pleased to know you're just as scary now as you were six years ago, old man."

Silas looks happy to see me. "I wasn't expecting you, Dr. Nejem. You should have made yourself know, the class would have been glad to meet you."

"You know how I am with crowds," I dismiss.

He leads us to his office, monologuing the whole time on this newest generation and how unfocused they are.

"I'm sure you said the same of me," I point out cheekily as he holds open the door to his office for me.

Chuckling, Dr. Robinson shake his head. "I couldn't recall, though it is likely." He seat himself, then turns a more serious eye upon me. "I am surprised to see you – I thought you'd still be out among the stars."

"It wasn't working out for me. Maybe in a few months, but I need to stay earthside for the moment. I'm still looking, but I think I might have a few places in Europe scoped out for research. Let's call it a sabbatical."

Robinson waits for me to continue, shuffling a few papers that lie scattered across his desk.

"I had a bit of a conflict with some of the authority figures," I clarify.

He smirks. "That's the Alya I know. It's a wonder you graduated so early, my dear, you are quite keen on being right, I'm surprised you didn't make more enemies than you did. So, was it some uppity captain that tried to peek at your notes? Perhaps a lieutenant that butchered a Carthaki greeting in your presence?"

"I outrank even a lieutenant," I say, mock indignantly. "And no. It was an admiral, and their unfair treatment of a captive."

"Ah." Silas sits back. "Turning humanitarian, are we?"

"You would too, if you'd see the way Marcus –"

He stops me. "Admiral Marcus?" Dr. Robinson gets a dark cast to his gaze. "Do you follow the papers much, Alya?"

"Not since I've been deployed."

"Of course. Then you wouldn't know what's going on with Starfleet's 'most celebrated' fleet admiral." Robinson scoffs at the title. "Then again, I'd say most don't." The professor gives me a very seriously, folding his hands upon the desk. "Admiral Marcus is campaigning for a war, Dr. Nejem. And he's already picked his opponent."

"What?"

"Oh, it's been in all of his speeches. Makes a run in even a few editorials. The people who have been paying attention know – unfortunately, that's only a very, very small percentage of the population, and an even smaller group within Starfleet."

I know Marcus is a ruthless man, but this is difficult for even me to believe. Silas doesn't wish to leave me in doubt, however, and pulls up a video on his PADD of a speech for 6 months back. I watch as Marcus proclaims that we shall endeavor to prove ourselves to our adversaries through any means available, that Starfleet is dedicated to protecting the planet, etc, etc. To anyone not looking out for it, they are the words of a general all too ready for war

"Tell me, was this prisoner Klingon, by any chance?"

Flabbergasted, I shake my head. "N-no."

I then begin to explain, being as vague as possible, leaving out who, exactly our captive was and from what specific circumstances we plucked them from. Robinson listens.

"Hm," Silas grunts when I've finished. "That may be a stretch then. But I'd still say, whoever it was, whatever the circumstance, Marcus made every move in an effort to bring us closer to a war. He's infatuated with the idea of glory. The Klingons are a threat, but they're just icing on the cake – he's sure the rest of the galaxy is entirely against us. The only way to ensure our safety is to go in for an all-out war against the Klingons, bring about a glorious victory that will tell all of the others to watch their steps."

"But that's suicide," I say quietly. "We're a peacekeeping organization, there is no way we have the technology or firepower or –" I shake my head, horrified. "He's sending the entire fleet on a suicide mission – an unnecessary loss of life – just for a bit a glory? Just so he can prove we're up to snuff?"

"If he can, he will."

"This isn't what Starfleet is about."

"But it is what Marcus will make about if he has the chance, Alya."

We end up getting dinner and discussing the matter a little further. I leave Portland unsure of my confidence in Silas's theory. While it's not an impossible thing, the thought is still something of a stretch. I don't wish to believe it – I truly do not wish to believe Marcus to be some ambitious, so derange in his goals. And yet, a small, perhaps crazy, sliver of me can believe it to be all too true.

**-XXX-**

After my visit to Portland, I finish out my contract for the season on a two-month venture on a medic ship, giving aid to a war-torn Eminiar VII. I go only on the condition that we stop for a time at Memory Alpha – a planetoid with an impressive database.

The crew is far nicer this time around. I'm pleased to make the acquaintance of Dr. Leonard McCoy, who has been recently graced with fame from his involvement in the _Enterprise's _recent victory against the miners of the _Narada, _the ship that destroyed Vulcan. He's a witty man, and we part good friends.

Following this, I returned to the Bay to finish packing. I had just about another week before I could get out, so I was taking my time – rising early, packing a few items, then retiring to the window seat to curl up with a cup of tea and a book. I knew then that I'd be across the pond, somewhere, working on research. The apartment was something I'd selected at random based on a few photos online.

Since my removal from the _Union, _I'd felt a little despondent. Guilt often shadows my thoughts. Part of me feels a zealous need to find Khan, demand reforms, reveal Marcus's true nature – something. But instead I'm left to laze about my apartment, fuming halfheartedly.

There is little I can do. I _know _this. Part of me has accepted it. But another part – a more suborn part – dearly wishes to find a way to release him. It's the _right _thing. The moral thing. All my life, all of my higher education says that Starfleet made the wrong move. One that I helped them make. One that I need to rectify. But Starfleet doesn't seem interested in helping.

Being in the Bay is making me sick. I am reminded every day when I go out and see uniformed young cadets, pass vehicles emblazoned with the Starfleet emblem, spot HQ rising above the city – sparkling, brilliant, facets of windows allowing it to gleam as a fine jewel. I'm left to simply turn away in disgust.

The day I catch the shuttle for London is a happy one indeed. While I was a little sorry to say goodbye to the city that has been my home for nearly two years, to American in general, I was more than ready to get away. I'd not been so attached, I suppose, as I've been uncertain of my future for years. This was a fresh start. A new beginning.

**-XXX-**

I arrive midday. The trip is short, but I am exhausted nonetheless. I take a cab to my apartment. All of my boxes and crates are inside, kindly delivered by my landlord. The bed is set up, too, thanks to the movers, and the couch and other parlor furniture have been unwrapped and somewhat arranged. In my weariness, I can do little more than make the bed and set up a few toiletries. I have tea and a few cookies in one of my boxes, so I spend nearly a half hour digging around for a kettle and a cup. This is my early, pathetic dinner. After finish off one sleeve of wafers, I make my way to the shower, then to bed.

Snuggling under the duvet, I listen to the sounds of this new city, trying to adjust myself. Despite my weariness, sleep may not come so easily as I'd like.

Tomorrow I'll unpack, then go by the nearest grocer, and maybe contact my coordinator at the East London University. They're supposed to get me access to the libraries, archives, and museums about the country beyond those Starfleet owns. I hope they can pull the clearances through soon - I don't think I'd like hanging around my apartment alone for a week or so. That is what would inevitably happen. I need to be forced out of the flat, really, if I'm to be exposed to the city or the people or anything at all.

These thoughts weigh heavy as I curl into my pillow. _"Stop," _I command myself sleepily. _"Find peace." _

Despite my new surroundings and the strange, loud London city traffic outside, I manage to drift off soon enough.

**-XXX-**

I love archives. When I was in school, those massive research projects were some of my favorites. It's all too easy to get lost in the rows and rows of information. Distraction is ready to find. I run my fingers along the spines, letting my eyes drift across call numbers and titles. They're dry – typical of archive material – yet enchanting nonetheless.

I don't know how long I go browsing, pulling out volumes to flicker through pages, before I am interrupted.

"Pardon me," a deep voice sounds from behind me. I shift slightly without looking up, allowing the intruder to move past. These particular rows are very close, making navigation through a bit of a chore if another person is occupying the space. Still, I've given enough room so that the man needn't touch me in the least. Yes, my back is brushed. I stiffen at the contact, and maintain the posture when the figure pauses. I can feel the heat radiating off of this person, this person who is hovering uncomfortably close to me. I can feel them brush against my back again, and get the sense that I'm being boxed in. When it becomes apparent, that they're not moving, I look up, ready to issue a venomous telling off.

The intruder is currently peering at the shelf just above my head, feigning preoccupation. I wiggle away from the shelf, opening my mouth, but I am given pause when he looks at me. I'm left with my mouth gaping, like some kind of a cod.

Khan allows one brow to rise as he absorbs my shock. It takes me several seconds to regain my composure.

"Excuse me," I manage, stepping away.

"No, no, please excuse me." Something like a smirk tugs at his thin lips. "I do believe I was in your way. It would appear we're cultivating similar interests, however. Perhaps we could help one another -"

"Oh," I assure him (doing everything in my power to prevent myself from a breathless gasp), "I believe I have everything I need. Goodbye."

I make to leave. But I am stopped by a soft word.

"Dr. Nejem," he calls after me. I half-turn. Utterly terrified. Khan stalks down the aisle, impassive. He stops just before me. "Such a cold greeting. I'd expect more of a friend."

"We're not friends," I say faintly. "That is, I don't think we couldn't be."

Curiosity glints in his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I should ask the same of you, Mr. Singh."

"It's Harrison," he says shortly. For a second time, he's insisting that I refer to him by the white-bread alias I'm supposing Starfleet penned.

I incline my head. "Of course, my apologies." I take this opportunity to back away. "I really must be going, but, it's…rewarding, to see you again."

"Allow me to walk you out."

Opening my mouth to protest, I find that my elbow has been clasped, and I am being gently guided towards the stairs. We seemingly float up them. In my daze I don't even think to ask questions, I merely listen as he swiftly murmurs.

"This is a strange coincidence indeed, and not one I shall abandon my suspensions on, however – I will be more than glad to take advantage of your company while you are here, doctor. Would you care to meet me for dinner some time?"

"I –"

"Excellent," he says smoothly. "I shall call to arrange a time. Your transmission number is still Starfleet database, correct?"

"When exactly did I agree to this?"

He ignores me. "If it is not, I shall find you regardless." This sends a chill across my bones. I don't falter in my step, however – Khan makes sure of that. He pauses when we near the entrance of the archives. "I don't know why you are here, Dr. Nejem. But I find that I am pleased to see you."

Surprised, I remove myself from his grasp. "Oh. I…It's good to see you too."

Briefly, something akin to a smile crosses his pale features. "I shall see you very soon."

Leaving me with nothing else, he returns to the lower level archives.

**-XXX-**

I receive a message two days later, inviting (or perhaps even commanding) me to dinner the next night. I grudgingly select a outfit – something black and modest - and arrive ten minutes ahead of time. John Harrison is, of course, already there, and, unsurprisingly, matching me in colorless attire. I take the seat across from him. We're in the middle of the restaurant. Shifting uncomfortably, I avoid his eyes. I sense, when the waitress comes around, that I am not the only one.

"Tea," I say, smiling forcefully. She returns the smile, pushing back a few loose curly strands of hair. The smile wavers when she turns to Harrison.

"Water."

She scurries away. I sit against the back of the chair, wishing I could disappear, if only for a few minutes.

"You are distracted."

I glance at him. "Sorry."

He doesn't appear much affected. "Why are you here?"

"Research. Believe it or not. I was getting a little tired of the Bay and Starfleet." In my lap, my hands squeeze tighter in their clasp. "After my last outing on the _Union, _I realized something is rotten in the state of Starfleet, and I don't intend to be associated with it."

"That rot," he says slowly. "Is perhaps connected to my…revival?"

I meet his gaze fully. "Perhaps."

"How long have you been here?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Two months. And yourself?"

"A little longer."

The waitress returns with our beverages. Silence rules our table as she sets the teacup, saucer, and glass down. John Harrison glowers at the waitress, apparently offended that our stale conversation had been interrupted. If I could blush I would – I am quite embarrassed of my partner's behavior. He doesn't stop his brooding until she's taken our orders and departed.

We sit, awkward, for several long moments before I gather the courage to speak.

"What…what have you been doing?" I ask as politely as I can.

He makes a noise that seems to indicate that he'd rather not get into the details of his work – whatever that work may be. I sit back against the chair, hard, biting back a sigh. _"What's the point of enduring this if you're not going to talk?" _Alas, John Harrison doesn't choose to spare me, so I am forced to choose another subject.

"London is quite beautiful, isn't it?"

To this he agrees, but nothing else is added. Frustration mounting, I cross my arms – a preventative measure to ensure I won't be tapping my nails against the table. A dead give. I don't doubt Kahn is a student of body language.

"This is very stimulating," I say, fingers wrapping around my teacup. "I sure am glad I left work early and put about an ounce of hairspray on top of these several hundred hairpins instead of reviewing those manuscripts I've been hoping to annotate."

To my surprise, Mr. Harrison snorts. He smiles down at the table. "I apologize if you do not find my company particularly thrilling. I am afraid it has been sometime since I have been in any sort of casual socialization setting."

"Is that was this is?"

He sips his water, smirking slightly. "Perhaps."

I am stunned. "You literally asked me out to…socialize? Catch up? If you are, you're doing a terrible job of it."

The waitress has returned with our food. She doesn't look at John Harrison, hands quaking slightly as she places his plate before him. John doesn't appear to take note of this. I make an effort to appear friendly, smiling slightly in a desperate attempt to assure her that we're nice people really, nice people who will leave a tip and who don't deserve their drinks spit in. When she hurries away, the ties of her apron flying behind her all too telling, I round on my tablemate.

"You didn't have to scare the poor thing," I scold.

John appears mildly surprised. He doesn't comment, however, moving on to another topic. "How are you liking London, Dr. Nejem?"

"It's been fair to me," I reply readily. "The weather reminds me of Portland."

"Portland?"

"I did my graduate studies there. Lived there for about five or so years. It was quite overcast and rainy. Though, it's a different kind of rain here."

"Quite British?" he offers, and I find myself laughing.

"Yes, entirely British. What about you?" I ask lightly. "What are your thoughts on London?"

For a second, it seems as though he flickers between the quietly charming man of the last several moments and something darker – a fellow with an edge, a caged creature. Then, he answers smoothly, "It has suited me well enough. I'm afraid I've been a little too preoccupied to enjoy much of its splendors."

"You and me both."

"But what I have seen I've enjoyed," he continues. "The monuments. The Thames is a sight…"

"Is that all you've seen?" I ask, incredulous, half-laughing.

He's silent. I grin. "Mr. Harrison, you've stayed quite cooped-up haven't you?"

Again he smiles at me. Despite the high neck of his charcoal sweater and jet colored jacket, sharp cheek bones, and cold blue eyes, the simple motion of his lips tugging up are softening. He looks human. Less intense.

That would be the exact word – _intense. _It's everything that describes him. Down to a t.

"So, you asked me out just to…see me? There wasn't some great message you wished to impart? You just wanted to socialized?"

Something moves in his icy eyes. "But of course. You are…surprised?"

"Yes. Well, you haven't exactly given off a vibe of friendship," I murmur. "Not that I can blame you. Circumstances were tense."

He snorts. "That is certainly a way of putting it." Curiously, he looks at me. "How did your mission end, Dr. Nejem?"

"Not well," I admit. "After finding that you were transferred and still under Starfleet custody, I sort of charged up to Marcus's office and gave my piece. Then I went stateside and started looking for a new project. That lead me here."

"You spoke to Marcus?"

I was quiet. "What they were doing…wasn't right. I didn't know they took you here, John. But I am glad to see you whole and hale."

He doesn't answer. Instead, John Harrison's eyes slide from mine as he steadily cuts at his steak. He takes a delicate bite. I watch, sipping my tea. It's long gone lukewarm, and does not pair well with my salmon, but I keep at it anyways until I hit the dregs, and I ask the waitress for a spot of wine.

**-XXX-**

Her caviler behavior is surprising. But it's also strangely charming. He does not ponder it too much, however, choosing instead to enjoy the evening. After she informs him of her scolding of Marcus, they sit in relative quiet before he changes the subject to her work. Hesitant, the young academic explains her interest area - intergalactic relations through the ages – and her research. He feigns interest for a brief time, then works to gather the extent of her working relationship with Starfleet. It's nothing too impressive; a clearance to most levels of the archives here, in London, and in San Francisco and Beijing respectively. Since coming earthside she's not been granted nor has she applied for positions on any ships or in any short-term missions. At most, she's requested audience to diplomatic meetings, a few clearances to various embassies, among other things.

Alya inquires after his own work. He brushes the question aside with a few vague remarks, shifting the focus back to her. But it doesn't hold long – she begins to get a little casual in asking about hobbies, interests. Eyeing her with slight annoyance, he gives a few short answers.

In response, Alya begins to playfully turn the conversation back to him every chance she receives.

"Oh yes, I'll take some more….speaking of wines, John, what is your drink of choice?"

"I've just finished a volume of Keats. Do you read, Mr. Harrison?...any poetry?"

"Spent eight hours pouring over old UN transcriptions. What's your work in London been like?"

"How was your steak? Are you a meat kind of man?"

"…I was passing a newsstand yesterday….do you subscribe to any papers…?"

"On TV last night –"

"The weather—"

It was a pleasant enough game of wits. In the end he answered a few of her questions, but not so much to provide a significant picture of him. Pleased, Alya sat back in her chair, polished off her wine, and gazed at him. The alcohol had lessened her nerves, making her bolder, her voice stronger. He gazed back. A little amused, he asks, "Was it worth the hairpins, Dr. Nejem?"

Her eyes narrowed, though he caught a flash of mischievous satisfaction. "Perhaps," she allowed with a sniff. "Are you getting my side of the bill?"

**-XXX-**

Outside of the restaurant, she goes straight to the curb for a cab. He follows, staying close behind her. So close that she nearly collides with him when a car pulls up and she hops back from the street. Alya turns, eyes wide. They're nearly chest-to-chest.

"Yes?"

"I enjoyed this," he allows, intoning deeply. "Your company was…delightful, doctor."

"Yes," she says again, agreeing faintly. Her eyes have glazed briefly, drifting down before snapping up to meet his once more. "Yes, yes, your company was equally enjoyable. Thank you…." She fumbles for further words. "Ah…."

"I shall see you again sometime, soon perhaps?"

"Oh, I…."

His brows rose. "As two newcomers to this city, we ought to stick together, Dr. Nejem. Besides, who else will show me the sights that you deem so fair?"

"Very well," the doctor agrees hesitantly.

"Is it such a chore?"

She winces, protesting, "No!" but stops when she sees his slight grin.

"Your driver grows irate. Good night, doctor."

She returns the farewell faintly, slipping into the backseat of the dark vehicle with a pensive expression. He watches her until the cab rounds a corner, then he slips back into the night.

**-XXX-**

**Hopefully the dates and seasons give you something of an idea of timeline. If you have any questions or feel like better clarification is require please message me!**

**Questions, comments, concerns, encouragements, I accept and try to answer them all! Feedback is the best thing you can give a budding writer! It was my birthday on Friday! This was a super juicy and long chapter! Something must tempt you to submit a review! **


	9. Chapter 9

**-XXX-**

**2258**

"It's impossible," Khan says flatly. "I cannot do it within the deadline, with the amount of materials I have received. I still need to go through testing –"

"Your people," Marcus says delicately.

At this, Khan freezes over his microscope. He does not speak, but waits for the admiral to go on. Marcus, sensing the tension, smiles with razor-sharp thinness.

"I should just like to remind you that their well-being is entirely dependent on you. Though, I am sure you've not forgotten…."

The Augment's hands lower to the counter. They grip the ledge tightly. "Understood, _sir,_" Khan grounds out slowly.

"I am glad we have reached some…clarity." Marcus lingers for a few moments before marching from the lab.

When the Augment is certain the admiral is in the elevator, the stone counter crumbles beneath his hands, leaving two fist-shaped grooves within the otherwise straight edge of the lab counters. Khan slams his fists down, leaning heavily, breath rasping. Every threat against his family left him a little more shaken. Their vulnerability was Marcus's leverage.

This was not the first time Marcus openly threatened the still-sleeping augments. And it shall not be the last.

_"Someday," _he promises himself. But a braver, darker side of him asks, _"Why not today?"_

**-XXX-**

The plan comes to him at night. He's just finished the latest weapons order Marcus had issued – an improved laser structure for the short-range shuttles. It was one of the smaller projects he had been assigned, yet stressful nonetheless. To calibrate the damn beams is no walk in the park. But he finishes, sending his section 31 supervisor a comm message assuring him a demonstration in the morning. Then – the scheming.

Taking on the whole of Starfleet – not to mention associated organization and planets – is quite the task. One that Khan has his doubts about. Though he once ruled the whole of Asia, he never dealt with any kind of true uprising or overwhelming conflict, save for his removal from power. And then, it had been him and all of his comrades. It shall be only him, for now.

The first place to strike is Section 31, naturally. The archives here in London will do nicely, especially considering their significance in Marcus's greatly-anticipated intergalactic war with the Klingons. Striking the very heart of his weaponry will surely get the message across. The question is…how? He needs leverage. He needs inside help.

Revenge is not the primary goal. He acknowledges this as he walks to his apartment from the lab. But to sprinkle in a bit along the way, well, no one could begrudge him that.

He'll have his family back. Sooner, rather than later.

**-XXX-**

I'm back in London after another long weekend in the States, visiting my parents. Business with the Starfleet archival offices dictates that I be present about twice a month to sign and officiate various records of my dealing with alien cultures. My parents know this, and blatantly pressure me into coming home for a few days. Ever since the recent encounter with the _Narada _and the _Enterprise's _infant crew, they've been especially edgy. My mother nearly fell to the ground weeping when I showed up on the stoop the first time since returning from my brief mission on the _Union._ She didn't calm down until she's held me on the couch sobbing for roughly an hour. My father crept around the kitchen hurriedly making jasmine tea, carrying in the tray, then perching on the nearest armchair with a warily stern expression upon his face. Following this I was lectured for another twenty minutes.

"I was fine," I told them incredulously. "Seriously, never a moment in danger."

_Except that one time I was assigned to an exploration crew where one man died and three were injured. _

It was common sense to not tell them about Khan. No need to worry them further when they were both already incredibly nervous about my work. I reassured them it would be sometime before I went back outside of the Earth's atmosphere.

"Do not be foolish, Alya Nejem!" my mother warned. "The _Enterprise _crew went out thinking nothing of it, I'm sure, but a good number of them died –"

My father shushed her, thankfully, before I could explode.

I would dread these returns were it not for the fact that following these less-than-exciting meetings with Starfleet and less-than-tranquil-visits with my family I oftentimes saw John. He was my contact in London – the person I used to keep track of me when I traveled. When I was in university my father advised having someone to text to inform when I made it home, so that someone would know when to expect me. Being the only person I knew in London, John was that person.

The morning after I return we're scheduled to meet up for coffee and a walk. It's late autumn, so still a little chilly, but the parks are lovely and fresh air would be welcome after a long day of travel. So I put on my royal blue pea coat, winding the cream-colored scarf Luta sent me from a recent trip to Aldebaran III around my neck. I pack my leather messenger work bag, planning to head to the East London University Library after our walk. Lacing my boots – I have a grand tendency of tripping which is only amplified when I am around John Harrison, who has a long stride that is difficult for me to match.

He's not at the bench when I arrive. Surprised, I sit. After several minutes of waiting, I pull out some paperwork to browse. Getting lost in the small print, I forget to watch out for John.

A presence appears at my side with a sight heat and pressure that drags me away from my text. Holding two paper cups, John sits calmly beside me, looking out on the park. Being only about nine, it's relatively empty. His crystal eyes follow a small group of runners before switching to a youngish guy walking a large Dalmatian, to a mother pushing a fussy baby in a stroller, to a grander tending to some tulip blubs. Without looking at me he offers one of the cups. I sip tentatively. Coffee, with the appropriate amount of cream and sugars.

"Thank you."

"How was your trip home?"

I sigh. "It was…a trip."

He does not inquire further, though his lip quirk in amusement.

"And your weekend?"

John sips his tea. "It was a weekend."

I smile into my cup. From the corner of my eye I can see his lips tug up. We sit in companionable silence for a while, enjoying our warm beverages, watching the park's other occupants. I replace my papers in my bag, arching my back against the bench as I stretched slightly. "Shall we walk?"

**-XXX-**

They took several turns about the park. They did not speak excessively, though a conversation occurred between long pauses. The primarily focus was on the recent decimation of Vulcan. Alya expresses regret and sorrow at the loss. John has less to say on the subject – he understood losing one's people, but he was indifferent to weighing in on the matter. He is especially annoyed, however, when she begins to discuss the _Enterprise. _

"I know the chief medical officer, Leo McCoy. He's a good man," she sighs. "I am glad he made it through okay. It's terrifying. Starfleet wasn't made for battle. I mean, all of the ships have defenses, but it's a primarily peacekeeping organization."

Her words have an affect on him – the grip he's maintained on his cup tightens dangerously.

"They'll probably begin thinking more like a military body than exploratory or peacekeeping," she continues sadly. "I can only imagine what they're doing right now in weaponry and defense development."

_"Indeed."_

"This just changes so much…."

She has no notion. No idea what those higher up on the totem pole are planning. Since the incident, the pressure upon him to make more innovative weapons had increase. The hours he spent in the engineering lab had greatly risen. He dreamt of blue prints, formulas, molecular explosions….when he wasn't dreaming of his family.

He'd dreamt of them, in his long sleep upon the _Botany Bay. _Which only made waking up all the more terrible.

"…is it just me? Or do you feel it too?" Alya peers up at him. Her dark eyes are utterly liquid. Khan looked down at her blankly before replying, too lost in his own furious thoughts, before replying.

"Yes," he answers impassively. "Yes, I have."

**-XXX-**

John has been quite adamant that I do not meet him at his place of work. It's annoying, because he's invaded mine often enough. He is a little less strict about coming to his home, though I've never been -not that I have been searching for an invitation to either – he's occasionally allowed me to meet him outside of the building. It's a tall, narrow apartment building, quite old, stark in its simple appearance of brick and thin windows.

Still, I am surprised when asks that I meet him there after already making me wait. We're supposed to be having dinner, but he'd messaged me saying he would be late. An hour past when we'd arranged to met, I receive a message on my comm asking that I come to his flat – we'll leave for the restaurant from there.

Altogether, I've been in London for nearly seven months now, with five of those months being spent getting to know Mr. Harrison – formerly Singh – over a variety of walks, coffees, and dinners. We're getting along nicely enough. Though, I don't think we're making any friends with natives. I can't say I mind too much. Bar hopping and girls' nights out tend to be a little too distracting for my taste. Harrison keeps me at a nice arm's length and I do likewise (attributing my caution to knowledge of his past, though I've no clue what excuse he uses for me). I don't mind keeping thing that way.

Which is why I come to his flat with a tinge of annoyance on my lips. _"He said work kept him late, Alya," _I scold myself mentally. _"Give the fellow a break."_

The halls are just as exciting as the exterior – white, with florescent lighting likely from the last century, industrial carpeting. I trail along until I come across number 115. I knock, but the door opens before I can even lower my hand.

A disheveled John Harrison stands in the threshold. His hair is all out of sorts, shirt askew, but the worst is his eyes – gleaming of fury. They're a slate blue-grey, like storm clouds above the ocean. I almost take a step back. Blinking, I lower my hand.

"Hello –"

He turns without a greeting, merely grunts, stalking away. I step inside. The apartment is nearly as barren as the rest of the building. White walls, a pair of windows lining the furthest, no curtains, merely blinds. No pictures or anything. He's got a couch, a comm unit, a radiator, and little else. A few books lay stacked on the floor beside the couch, which is beige and boring and looks like it belongs in a low-end doctor's office. There's a kitchen to my right, which is spotless (likely a result of lack of use rather than cleanliness). He doesn't even have dishes in the sink. Finally, there is a dark hallway, which I assume leads to a bedroom and a bath. It's where John has disappeared off to, leaving me in the front room, confused and wary. He's not even turned any lights on aside from one under-the-cabinet thing that emits a soft white light, but leaves the rest of the space fairly dim.

All in all, it's a grim setting. I cannot blame him for working long hours, taking long walks, or avoiding entertaining company. It's a miserably place. Not even a bachelor's pad, more like the temporary living space of a disaster survivor. Impersonal. Sad.

"John," I call. There's no answer. I remove my coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, opting that removing my shoes is just a little too familiar for the moment. Again, I call out, a little louder. No reply.

I try again. "Do you still want to go? I mean, it's getting late…we could stop by a pub but…you seem a little out of it. I can go..."

Not even a sound. Frowning, I moving cautiously down the darkened hallway. On the left there is a door that's half-open. I push it with my foot before slipping in.

Again, it's a pretty desolate room. One bleak window this time, along with a bed that claims the wall adjacent to the door, which has only white sheets with a white comforter. A desk claims the other wall. Here there are a few more books, along with some papers, mechanical odds and ends – a though he's been building something. Some clothes lay on the floor, but the room is devoid of anything personal.

He stands before the closet door. Just…staring. I near, only to recoil when I see his fists – both curled, shaking slightly from the force of a rage I have no wish to know.

"Are you alright?" I ask quietly.

Nothing. I take a step forward. The tremors increase, then pause. I reach out. One hand touches his shoulder. He stills. I come closer. That's when I see the blood.

With his hair falling around his face, I'd not seen the dark liquid that slashed his cheek. I gasp. My hands rise to cup his face, in the process turning him towards me. We're incredibly close, uncomfortably so, but my shock won't let that register.

"What happened?"

"Accident at work," he murmurs.

**-XXX-**

Snapping the neck of the security officer in front of that young physicist to make his point was perhaps not the best of decisions. It ultimately resulted in him being at the receiving end of a few stunner blasts, along with a few well-placed kicks from the head of security. Besides that, Marcus had been furious – though, not furious enough to carry out any particular threats against the augment.

Even as he'd walked home, he fumed, though he kept the rage relatively contained until he'd made it past the threshold of his apartment. After messaging Alya, however, the fury unsealed itself quite easily; looking around the meager living space reminded him of his days in India, which only served to remind him of his hate. He almost exploded.

_"They. Will. All. __**Burn."**_

Then Alya had arrived – long before he'd been able to get any kind of a grasp upon himself – and he left her to prepare for dinner. She helped. She always helped. Alya reminded him that they were not all scum, they were not all cockroaches to be squished beneath his heel. Some were like his mother. Some were like her. So, he left her alone in his living room to calm himself, alone, in his bedroom. But then she had followed….

Her fingers gently skirt the surface of his skin, feeling along the line where sticky dark blood crusted his pale face. It started just at his temple, moving down until it was nearly level with the end of his nose. Though, it is not so bad. Where there had been a wound and an ugly bruise a half-hour ago, the skin was clear, save for the dried blood. She make a soft noise of surprise, and he remembered that ordinary humans did not heal as he did. She seems to remember this too, and makes to draw her hand away. He caught her wrist before she can distance herself. Her other hand rests flatly against his chest; being so close, she has no other option. Khan can practically see her stream of thoughts as she registers the motion – which had been very fast – along with their current proximity.

Testing the waters, she meets his eyes and tugs back. He does not relent. Expressionless, he holds her against him, keeping the wrist locked in midair. A mid panic arises within Alya, her eyes growing wide. Every fluttering heartbeat – _"Oh, she _is_ anxious," _ - he feels. In his anger, he is hyper-sensitive.

"What happened?" she whispers.

The timeline flickers through his mind. Another inspection of his work by Marcus, another threat against his family, the snide little physicist remarking upon his selection of steel grades for the newest round of torpedo prototypes, the security office jabbing him in the ribs, his blood pounding so loudly he doesn't even hear the bones snapping nor the physicist screaming or the others running into the room. The feel of eight phasers set to stun impacting him with generous blasts. A few swift kicks in the ribs, face, groin. Being lead to the central comm unit in the head engineer's office to speak to Marcus. Watching bruises fade from his chest as he stood in the bathroom. Washing off the blood and spit. Fists tightening as he exited the building. Imagining something that would set them all ablaze.

All of this falls upon him in mere seconds. He cannot even think to explain to Alya. She cannot know what Marcus has planned for him, what her precious Starfleet has done – - His hands tighten dangerously. She squeaks at the increase in pressure. Catching himself, Khan looses his hold, dropping their combined limbs to rest between them a little more comfortable.

One thumb finds her pulse. It settles there, focusing on the pace. As he steadies, so does she.

"What happened to you?" she asks again. "What accident? Khan –"

His name slips out and to his surprise, her heart rate spikes again in panic. But he does not react, maintaining steady eye contact.

"There was an explosion." "_That's one way of putting it." _"I'm fine."

She is entirely unconvinced. "Are you certain?"

He occupies himself with her hand, the one he still has by the wrist. "Completely," he tells it, tracing the lines of her palm. Her skin is warm. Soft. There is muscle, but little wear. No callouses. All of his women in his family have callouses, burns, scars, and the like. "Dinner?"

Alya hesitates. "We don't have to go out. We can order something, if you want, and stay in. You seem a little…stressed. I don't think going out would help much."

He allows her to order Chinese, then perch upon the couch. He settles on the other end, and makes her tell him of her day. Alya readily provides a distraction until the food arrives, then continues to keep the conversation light as the night goes on. She leaves after nearly three hours. He's almost sorry to see her go.

**-XXX-**

**A little fluffier this chapter, but we do see some progress in the plot. Thoughts? Reviews would be lovely! **


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry about the wait. Second week of classes, and I'm already swamped….**

**-XXX-**

**2259**

"In what capacity did you know John Harrison?"

"I was on the ship that found him. I was a part of the crew that initially explored the _Botany Bay," _the young woman says calmly. She sits poised upon the dais, looking out into the sea of eager listeners with an expression of indifference. Not quite coldness, Dr. McCoy thinks, but rather, a careful composition of posed serenity.

The doctor is fairly well acquainted with the young anthropologist. He had the pleasure of working with her on a brief mission while the Enterprise was receiving repairs post-maiden voyage. She was a bright young thing two years ago, similar to him in her attitudes towards space, yet eager to make her name. She's one of the last people he'd have thought would testify – primarily because he was unaware of the connection, but it's inconceivable to him that she would want her name tied to the fiasco.

"Dr. Nejem," the attorney continues. "How would you describe the John Harrison – Khan – that you found on the _Botany Bay_?"

"He was in a cryogenic coma, sir," Alya answers dryly. Her pure sass pulled at his heartstrings. This is the girl he remembered – the kind to take little crap. "There is not much to describe."

The audience laughs. The attorney's mouth draws into a hard line. Alya appears unperturbed.

"And after he woke up?"

She opens her mouth, pauses, considering. After a few seconds she states shortly, "Terrified. Confused. Like a caged animal. He lashed out at us."

"What happened when you took him into custody?"

The anthropologist takes a breath. "He was questioned by a variety of people. Admiral Marcus was determined to find an advantage over our captive, and sent in several other interrogators before he handed Khan over to me. Or –" Here her lips twisted. " – perhaps it was the other way around."

"Why you, Dr. Nejem?"

"I cannot tell you, sir. I have no experience in interrogations. My job is all about asking questions, I suppose to Admiral thought I could be of some use."

"And were you?"

She is quiet. "He talked to me. More so than the others."

The attorney allows this to hang in the air for a moment before resuming. "And what did you talk about?"

"Everything," Alya says simply. "We talked about a wide variety of subjects. I reported back to the Admiral. Khan was aware of what I was doing. I don't think either of us anticipated the Admiral's scheme." She swallows. From Bone's seat in the front, over sixty feet away, he can see the slight tremor in her hand as she rearranges herself. "A few months after recovering the ship, Marcus had Khan and the other Augments transferred. We thought they were being sent to London to become acclimated, or in the others' case, revived. But Khan was taken to Sector 31, and the augments were put into storage."

"Marcus recognized the use of Mr. Harrison's mind?"

"No," the doctor spat. "He recognized the ruthlessness. He would watch the footage recovered from our initial investigation of the _Botany Bay _over and over, watch Khan fight. Marcus wanted to know everything about the augments, their entire history, their design, their traits. He was enthralled by the warrior nature of Khan." Her voice wavers slightly, then picks up a new force. "Admiral Marcus was searching for a war, but he knew we needed and edge over the Klingons. Khan was just that edge. He had _imagination. _Starfleet engineers were not employed to make weapons of mass destruction – the notion wasn't what Starfleet was about. But Khan could do that. It's why Marcus wanted him and it's why you're scared of him today. But it is not who Khan is inherently. He's a man who was designed to be better, yes, but he isn't a man made for war. This was something Admiral Marcus exploited out of him…."

The room murmurs. The passion of Dr. Nejem's speech settles upon the crowd. Beside McCoy, Kirk shifts uncomfortably. They both can feel grains of truth in Alya's words, however, her tones of understanding leave them both unsettled. This is one of the few people to testify that the group did not know personally – nearly everyone associated with Khan's work had been in Sector 31 when it was destroyed. Meaning almost no one who knew who the bloke was is currently living. Except, apparently, a Lieutenant Detherow and a handful of office and security workers under Admiral Marcus.

Between Alya's veils and her voice of sympathy towards the mass murder, few of Bone's fellow crew members were feeling particularly understanding towards her. Down the row, he could see Uhura hands tighten in her lap, her lips pursed. The green goblin is impassive as always, but annoyance radiates off of Jim like light from a mirror.

Only Carol Marcus appears the least bit compassionate. He can recall that there was an acquaintance between them that Carol had mentioned a few days ago, when they had been told Alya would be testifying.

"Who?" Scotty had bellowed. "'Hoo the 'ell is that?"

"She's an anthropologist." Spock was examining her Starfleet file on his PADD. "Accompanied two missions, one on the _USS Union_, another with _USS Preserver_, both as a cultural officer and for her research."

"The _Union?" _Kirk snapped his fingers. "She was on the ship when they found Khan's ship."

"But why is the defense bringing her in?" Uhura asked quietly.

The group was silent.

"I served with Alya on the _Preserver," _Bones had finally said. "She's a good person. She's probably just going to related her experience on the ship."

"But why her? Why is the defense calling on her?"

No one could answer. By the time Carol spoke, the group was unfocused on the idea of Alya Nejem. But he heard her.

"I know Alya," she said softly. "She's…nice."

That was all she'd said, really. But it was enough to convince him there was another ball in Alya's court when it came to the _Enterprise's _crew.

She would need it. Everyone can hear the clear note of emotion in Dr. Nejem's voice – and to the crew of the Enterprise, this was purely suspicious. McCoy frowns before turning his attention back to the doctor.

They were now questioning her about their time in London. "Where you aware of Mr. Singh's presence in the United Kingdom before you took up residency in London?"

"No, I was not."

"When did you become aware of his presence?"

"When we met by chance in a library. He bumped into me and struck up a conversation. At that point he introduced himself as John Harrison and told me he was employed by Starfleet. We went out to dinner later that week."

"And was that the only time you encountered Mr. Singh?"

"No. We met several more times before he bombed the Archives."

"'Met' in what sense?"

"We occasionally got a coffee or had dinner."

The lawyer continued down this line of questioning, attempting to discern if Alya had any knowledge of Khan's terrorism. She maintained that she did not, she had not been at the Archives the day of the incident, and that she had not seen him since about a week before the bombing. Without prompting, she gave a small speech of her ultimate thoughts on the manner.

"…I don't think what he did was right. But I do think Starfleet has greatly wronged these people. It would have been better to let them sleep."

"You are aware you are testifying to a Starfleet council, doctor? Those who employ you?"

From beneath her veil, there is a flash of teeth. "Yes, _sir, _but I should think Starfleet would be progressive enough to admit to their own failings. And I should care to remind you that while I am to some extent employed by Starfleet, I am not an officer. Therefore, I don't really give a_ damn_ whether or not Starfleet is offended by my opinion, _sir._"

Another murmur rolls through the crowd. Looking affronted, the lawyer straightens the cuff of one sleeve. "No…no further questions." He steps away from the small witness dais. The other attorney, Schwartz, Khan's legal counsel, smirks openly. Bones can see the wrinkled face of one councilman twitch with amusement. He doesn't bother in suppressing his own smile.

Khan, Bones notes, is as impassive as ever. He hasn't moved since Alya took the stand. But he followed her every motion, a certain gleam in his eyes that bespoke trouble to the Starfleet doctor. Alya doesn't look his way once.

**-XXX-**

When I received the call telling me I had approval to visit Khan, I was jubilant – until Schwartz informed me that it was under the condition that I testify next week. Someone had found records of our association in London. Frustrated, I grudgingly accept the terms. Schwartz tells me I'll get in after I take the stand.

"I'll be of no use to you," I tell him. "We are acquaintances. And Marcus didn't use me for much more than questioning. I can't save him, Mr. Schwartz."

"Yes," the lawyer agreed. "But you might humanize him."

I can't really answer to that, so I agree quietly.

I carefully dress the morning I am set to testify. A dark purple dress, modest, overlaid with a long dove-grey jacket. Very Eastern. I allow my hair to fall into dark waves, but pin a veil into place neatly, and wear little jewelry. My throat dries when I observe myself in the mirror. I loathe the idea of being in front of so many people for such an occasion. But if this is what I must do….

The taxi has trouble making its way down the block in front of the court house. It's the journalists again. But, to my surprise, it is my car they flood this time as the vehicle pulls up to the curb. I push through the surge that shouts my name. Without a word, I move swiftly through the crowd, grateful I'd selected sensible flats rather than heels. I only pause when someone shouts that Khan has arrived. Halfway up the steps, I turn.  
He is only just removing himself from the vehicle. Though several reporters still mill around me, asking questions, and being generally annoying as fruit flies, my focus shifts to the tall figure surrounded by red shirts. Our gazes lock. I contain myself from crying out. He looks positively caged.  
But I don't linger too long. I push past the journalists – if they can even be called such – to continue up the stairs. I've got thirty minutes before my testimony, and I dearly need to puke up my breakfast.

**-XXX-**

He finds her in the alcove just off of the chambers. It's where those testifying are asked to wait. He had to sit here once, alone in the room of white stone and stained glass. When he enters, she is engrossed in observing the glass that claims one wall of the space. It's non-traditional, meaning without lead in between the fragments of colorful pieces. Her fingers trace around several sharp pieces. The hem of her sleeve falls back, revealing thin wrists. Bone's cannot help but focus on that bit of skin, seeing veins, then tendons, then bone.  
"Alya," he says after several long seconds.  
Startled, the anthropologist jerks slightly. She recovers upon seeing who the intruder is. "Dr. McCoy."

He is pleased she remembers. "It has been a long time, Dr. Nejem. Long enough for you to get tangled up with the likes of Khan."

"Yes." She doesn't debate him. Instead, she sweeps her hair back over one shoulder and sits up straighter. He notes that her veil rests on one of the cushions on the bench beside her. "What brings you here?"

"They're about to recess. I wanted to see if you'd care to go out for lunch and catch up with an old colleague."  
"Oh Leonard," she says lightly. "You were never a colleague. You're a friend. Yes, I'll come."  
**-XXX-**

He's surprised when she agrees to the shabby little diner two blocks over. In all of her elegance, she ought to at least feel out of place, but Alya stirred cream into her chipped mug with a regularity that suggested comfort. As she doctored her brew, she cast an eye around the place. McCoy was too busy watching her to really note anything significant about the place.  
"I see you've been keeping busy over the last several years. Enough to keep up with the court room drama," he begins once the waitress departs to place their order. "I saw your testimony."

"And I saw yours," she shoots back, though there is no venom, only honesty.  
He is taken aback. "Have you?"

"I've been every day."  
Another surprise. "You're following quite closely."  
She is quiet. "Yes. I suppose I feel a certain level of responsibility for what happened."

"You were a victim of circumstance. Marcus gave you orders. You didn't have anyone to report to. The chain-of-command was tainted."

This did not appear to lift her spirits. "I could have stopped them from waking him up. I could have refused to do Marcus's bidding. There was a lot I might have done."

Bones shook his head. "You were manipulated by two very twisted men, Alya. No one could blame you for what occurred."

She gazes into her coffee. "I just wish that things could be made right."

McCoy's lips tighten. "It is a little late for that. Several thousand lives too late. Khan will get what he deserves, and Marcus has already paid for the trouble he's caused. The most the rest of us can do is be here as we rebuild."

Their food arrives. An awkward silence ensues as the food is distributed. Alya stirs her soup pensively as Bones tried a few French fries. Her eyes turned to the window. Vehicles passed sluggishly in the mid-afternoon light. Passers-by were brisker in their pace. The slight autumn chill only encouraged their speed. Bones thought how nice it was that he was getting another autumn on Earth before their 5-year voyage out to the stars.

"I think he deserves some form of mercy," she says quietly. The doctor stares. He is unsurprised by her words, and yet, to hear them said so frankly has him taken aback. She continues. "He was provoked. It does not excuse him, by any means, but…doesn't that mean anything? Marcus held the lives of 72 of his family members over his head."

The doctor clears his throat. "He killed over a thousand people, Alya."

"He was driven to madness. That no excuse, but it ought to be considered."

McCoy sighs. "I don't believe the council would take your side on this."

"Of course not." Bitterness creeps into her tone. "This is nothing but a victory lap, a ceremony of 'look-what-we-won' as he's put on display for a few months at a time. It's disgusting. A joke of a trial."

"That sounds awfully like treason, Dr. Nejem," McCoy warns.

Her lips tug slightly at the corners. "It does, doesn't it?" Alya takes a breath. "I knew him. I _know _him," she amends. "It's hard for me to see a monster, Leonard. I see a man who has been wronged, a man who made a tragic choice. But I don't see him as anything more or less than a man."

They're silent for a time, both mulling this passionate statement over. McCoy downs a few more fries, observing the woman across from him. How does someone like Alya Nejem – straight-laced, driven, no-nonsense - get tangled up in Khan's chaos? His mess went against her ambition. The compassion is no surprise to him – despite her want of legacy, Dr. Nejem was soft-hearted – but the willingness, nay, the want to throw her lot, her name, her reputation in with the mad man who had taken the lives of near thousands was lost on him. He can understand her care. But not her actions.

"You know he's not going to get any kind of second chance or redemption. His fate is set, Alya. He's a dead man walking."

She balks at the expression, and McCoy feels a pang of something akin to sympathy. He goes on.

"So, why testify? You're not going to change their minds. You're a drop in the bucket – no, the sea of testimony against him. We all no there is no doubt to his action, and between yourself, Spock, and Kirk, I can believe that we've got a few people convinced that Marcus had probably exploited the guy and that he's a victim of manipulation. But that won't break past the fact that he killed all of those people, and was ready to kill more. So…why throw your lot in with his?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," she says, too quickly. He is unconvinced.

"That's not you, Alya. You know it's a hopeless cause. You've said so yourself. So, why bother if you're not –" Bones pauses. "Did the lawyers offer you some kind of a deal?"

She's staring into her soup. "No," she admits quietly. "I offered them a deal. I testify for them and they give me access to Khan."

He's horrified. "Alya."

She can't meet his eyes. "Leonard, he's got no one."

"He killed nearly a thousand people."

"He was provoked. Your precious admiral pushed him to it." Her tone contained a venom that unsettles him. "I accept the fact that he's committed monstrosities. But that is not the John Harrison or the Khan I knew."

"The first time you met him he killed one crewman and injured three others. You are the only one who went unharmed – only because he passed out before he could attack you," McCoy says sharply. "That is the Khan you knew."

Alya has turned very gray. She ducks her head, stirring her soup. "That's not him. " But she does not elaborate.

Bones looks at her, shaking his head. "He's got you. He has something on you."

"No," she says gently. Though her face is still ashen, she appears to have some resolve left. "I just can't watch Starfleet try to sweep their mistakes under the rug, especially when I was a part of making those mistakes happen. The least I can do is see him. He deserves someone to show him some humanity."

"That's the very thing he hates."

Her eyes are bright. "Yes. But why shouldn't he receive some?"

Bones had to hand it to her – she was an excellent humanitarian. Nevertheless, he cannot help but be incredulous. "Alya, I admire your heart. I do, truly. But you know that this is madder than a donkey driving a train."

"That's a very odd analogy."

He is happy to see a slight smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "It was off the top of my head."

The smile grows. "I can tell."

He snags another fry. "I know." They pause. "I don't like it, but I respect you and what you stand for in this."

"Thank you, Leonard," she says. "I know you don't understand. "

"No," he agrees. "I don't." But for a moment, he wishes he did.

**-XXX-**

We stand outside of the diner for a few moments before parting ways. It's a little chilly, so I've stuffed my hands deep into my pockets. Bones watches the activities on the sidewalk around us, while I watch him. I realize he looks significantly old that our time together two or so years ago. Drawn lines stand out against this face. Beyond the usual scruff (he once claimed it was his best bet for drawing in the ladies), his eyes have more crows feet than before, and in general he looks….well-worn.

"Space has treated you well," I comment.

He gives me an "_oh, please_" look.

"Jim hasn't," he gripes. "The man had stolen years from my life, I promise. All my greys can be attributed to him."

"You're not the least bit grey." This is a bit of a lie – there are a few silvery strands spread through his neatly combed hair. "Is Captain Kirk really that bad?"

Leonard softens. "No. No, Jim is good. Hard-headed, but a good man and a good captain."

"Hm. Hard-headed, I wonder how that works between the two of you."

"Ha-ha. What about you? Have you been enjoying your earthside research?"

"Yes," I say, thinking. "I believe I have."

"Thought about getting out there again?" He's being serious now. "The _Enterprise_ won't be functioning for a few more months, but a five-year-mission might be right up your alley."

"Oh, no," I assure him. "I'm good stay here…it's tempting, but I just don't think it's really my setting."

"You were on a ship with Marcus," Bones points out. "You've never been on a proper, well-managed ship with a captain who genuinely cares for his crew. This would be a great experience for you. Besides, what would be better than the name _Enterprise_ next to yours? Dr. Alya Nejem, one of the crew on the 5-year-voyage of the USS_ Enterprise._"

I chuckle. "Thanks, Leonard. I'll keep it in mind."

"Do that. We've got a few months before we've got to finalize the crew list. I might be able to guarantee you a cabin to yourself."

"Fancy."

We say goodbye. I don't say I'll see him around, but we both know I'll be at the rest of the proceedings. McCoy shakes my hand, then steps to the curb to hail a cab. We're going opposite ways; him to his apartment, I believe, and me to Schwartz's office.

**-XXX-**

**Here we get another peek at Bone and his POV. **

**Thank you for all of the lovely feedback! Please, feel free to ask questions, comment, etc. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Augments Chapter 11**

**Apologies again for the wait! Things have been crazy…**

**I hope you're enjoying it so far! **

**-XXX-**

**2258**

She shows up at his flat nearly two weeks later. It is evening. He's drinking a cup of tea and preparing to meditate when there is a knock. She's standing in the hallway, with snowflakes still scattered in her dark hair, annoyance radiating off of her hotly. He's feeling a similar annoyance, though, likely for different reasons.

"Have you been avoiding me?" she demands, pushing her way in.

"Not particularly, no."

"It's been two weeks," she snaps. Off comes her coat. It's thrown on the nearby breakfast bar. She tosses her gloves down, the hat follows, then the scarf is unwound. Overall, the sight is rather amusing. "Over fourteen days, and you haven't bothered me once!"

"I should think you'd be please," he responds dryly. "So, what is it that's troubling you enough that you should seek to invade my living space."

She looks around, snorts, then shakes her head. "Hardly."

Khan returns to the couch, reclaiming his tea. "If you just wanted to insult my interior décor, I'm sure you could have done a suitable job over comm messages," he replies less-than-kindly.

"Why haven't you…spoken to me?" she asked, voice small.

His brows rose. "I have been busy. I did not realize I was expected to contact you within a fortnight." The augment turns the question back on her. "Why are you here?"

There is a pause. "I was worried," Alya manages.

He stares at her for almost a full minute. The young academic warily gazes back, unsure. Finally, he speaks.

"I assumed I made you feel…uneasy…in my behavior the last time we met. I lost control. Perhaps I was foolish to assume some temporary distance would serve us both well."

"Distance?" Frowning, Alya moved to sit on the couch.

"For at least a little while."

For a moment she mulls this over. Then, with a great sigh, she says, "I respect your decision, but it was a foolish one."

He merely looks at her. Though she does not color, Alya does grow sheepish, adding, "As was, perhaps, burst in here. I apologize."

"Forgiven."

**-XXX-**

"What had been bothering you that night?" I ask lowly. After he'd forgiven me, we had left for a drink out. In a secluded corner booth of a nearby pub, I'd been working to coax some more information out of him. Unfortunately he wasn't forthcoming, nor did he appear to be enjoying his beer.

"Which night?" he shoots back, looking into his glass with a measureable level of boredom.

I roll my eyes. "You weren't just hurt you, you were quite angry. Disturbed. What was troubling you?"

He is silent for a long time. I almost think he's ignoring me or simply didn't hear. He can be like that, sometimes – lost in his thoughts so deeply it's as if the world around fails to pass. I am patient, however, and wait. John finally speaks.

"I have been working for Starfleet for nearly nine months now," he says slowly. "And in those nine months, I have not seen my crew. I have not been given any kind of information on their status, their holdings…."

His knuckles are white, veins and muscles popping, he is gripping the glass so tightly. Fearful that the glass might very well break, I pry his hand from it. The fingers curl into my own.

"Nothing," he finishes.

"Why not?"

He closes his eyes. "Marcus believes the would…distract me from my work. Besides, how am I to be productive if I had the only thing in the world I wanted?"

I stare. "He's truly doing it? He's using them to manipulate you?"

"The admiral is holding the lives of the seventy-two people I hold most dear, my _family, _over my head."

"But – why?"

He barks out something like a laugh. "Your admiral Marcus wants to weaponize Starfleet," John hisses. "He's using my intellect, my savagery, my drive to create a stronger offensive organization. He is building a battle-ready Starfleet – and he's already planning a war to kick it off!"

"What?" I squeeze his hand, my nails biting into his flesh. "What do you mean?'

John chuckles darkly. "The recent tension between the Federation and the Klingons? It's something that has been entirely executed by Starfleet. Marcus has been doing everything in his power to ensure that there is a war ready to fight when he's at his leisure. The whole weaponry and defense develop sector is at his whim." Leaning in, his eyes are vast in their dark. "That's what I've been doing, Alya – creating the next generation of firepower that will guarantee a Federation victory. Marcus is bullying one race of people to show the galaxy that his pathetic planet can handle a war, that they're significant players on the map, not merely sniveling beings with a diplomatic services and their little fleet of ships made for peace-keeping missions. War is on the horizon."

I can't move nor speak nor think. John sits back to observe me. I'm left staring into my beer. Completely floored. Silas's words come back to me. His warnings against Marcus….He was right. How many more people suspected this.

"I knew…" I manage after several minutes spent in stunned silence. "I knew he was going to try to use you. But I didn't realize that it would be to…to start a war. A petty, petty war meant to boost his damn ego!" Shaking my head, I close my eyes. "He's not told you anything about your crew?"

"Nothing. I have accessed all of the records I could, but they're entirely off the books. There is a very small party that is aware that we even exist, and an even smaller group from that which has any knowledge of my crew's location."

"If they're keeping this so under wraps, why haven't I been approached or anything?"

"They're watching you," he says, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Why do you think you're so near a base?"

"I choose to come to London," I protest.

"Did you?" His brows rise. "Weren't you offered a position by the East London University after you'd returned Earthside without expressing any interested? Didn't it seem as though it came out of the blue?"

Reflecting on the exact terms of my employment, I pale. "No…."

"Oh yes," John assures me. "We're both here as pawns of the Federation."

His hand is still in mine. I make to release it, murmuring an apology. John doesn't appear to notice.

"What are you doing to resolve this?"

He looks at me, impassive. "What do you mean?"

"Someone has to know. Have you tried…I don't know, applying pressure in the right places?"

John snorts. "No, I have not, though it I find those places, I will certainly consider doing so."

"I am serious! You're not one to take things lying down. You can get them back. What about bargaining with Marcus? Surely there is some way –"

"You underestimate the level of scum your admiral has reached," John spat. "There is not way to bargain with a psychopath."

"Surely. What's he going to do with them? At some point you'll stop being useful, John. And he can't keep them forever. Make a deal."

The expression he gives me is pitying. Perhaps I am being naïve. But I can't simply loose heart. Someone needs to be a little optimistic. And if not Khan Noonien Singh, then let it be me.

"So…that night. It all just…hit you."

John, who has picked up his glass, pauses before taking a drink. "No. Marcus had just threatened my family were I to not produce a few prototypes fast enough for his liking."

"Threatened?"

"Their lives."

"Oh."

"Indeed," he murmurs darkly before downing the glass.

**-XXX-**

My trips to San Francisco aren't exactly my favorite thing – travel is always a pain, even with the last advances of the century - but I don't mind it so much. It's nice to get a little sun after the seemingly-endless overcast skies of London. Sometimes I even manage to pop up to Portland to visit Silas, if my parents don't monopolize the weekend.

However, this weekend, I'm stuck in the city, specifically on-base at the academy. Someone decided it would be a good idea if I gave cadets a lecture on the importance of cultural respect and understanding when encountering new species. It's better than pulling teeth, I suppose, though I'm not too enthusiastic. Cadets usually don't want to be there, and they don't hesitating in making their feelings obvious. It makes hours pouring over notecards seem rather pointless.

Following my talk on Sunday morning, I am deposit back at my quarters to pack. Approximately two hours later I am retrieved again to be taken to the airport. This time, however, I am not alone in the Starfleet shuttle. It's not really surprising – I've ridden with others plenty of times. But it's the person who take me aback.

Blonde, pretty, slim, with massive blue-grey eyes, the woman is roughly my age and extremely familiar. Reading from a PADD, she only just glances up when I climb inside, giving me a vague smile. She wears a grey woolen coat that falls just past her knee, though it's open just enough at the top to reveal blue. A science officer. A very familiar science officer? Had she been on the _Union, _or the _Preserver? _

Over the drive I continually peek out of the corner of my eye at her, but I cannot for the life of me place her. I write it off as a mystery.

We're dropped off at the same terminal. At the curb, both of us standing beside our bags, we're practically forced to look at one another.

"You're headed overseas as well?" Her smile is shy, but friendly.

"Yeah. Back home."

"I'm Carol Marcus," she says, thrusting out a hand. Her nails are beautifully manicured. "Science officer…currently not employed on any ship."

I laugh. "Alya Nejem. Recently of the _USS Preserver _and _Union. _Anthropologist. Pleased to meet you."

Something flickers in her eyes – recognition – when I list my associated ships. "You as well. Where are you headed, Ms. Nejem?"

I don't correct her. My title is just that – words. I've always disliked the asshole who insist that you recognize their achievements. So what they spent a few more years in school?

"London. I was just in town for a few lectures." By now we're inside, lining up at the security checkpoint.

"Really? I'm going to London as well." We compare flight numbers. "Oh, we must sit together!"

And just like that, I've made a new friend. We set up camp at the gate, chatting easily over coffee. Surprisingly, we hardly touch Starfleet-related topics. Sure, for a time we compare experiences, but all too soon we've moved onto London and my experiences there. Carol recommends a few restaurants and museums. By the time we're seated, we're already good friends.

Just about halfway into our flight, I realize why she is so familiar. I've seen her face, framed, on a shelf beside rows of medals and ribbons on display.

I wait for an opening in the conversation. Carol finishes describing her favorite shoe store _.

"So, Marcus…you aren't related to the admiral by chance, are you?"

She half-smiles. "You caught me. My father is the admiral. I try not to advertise it much. I don't want it affecting my work."

"Or how people treat you."

"More of that, yeah," she admits. "It's tough, being the boss's kid. I don't think they trust me, you know, not to run off and tell daddy…."

"That's got to suck."

Carol sighs, then smiles brightly. "But it's not so bad. Got my foot in the door. At the moment my main goal is to not be assigned with him anywhere, and so far it's worked out. I'd hate to be on the same ship as my father – I had enough of that when I was a kid."

And just like that she regales me of tales of her youth. Her mother died when she was quite young, leaving her in the care of a very English nanny and her father. When she was ten the nanny left and Carol began accompanying her father on longer missions. She spent a lot of time on ships and on base. After college, she turned to the academy. "It just seemed natural," she finishes, shrugging.

"And are you happy?"

Again, she shrugs. "I'm not unhappy."

Our flight is over too quickly. Once past the gate, I turn to her.

"How long are you in town? We should get dinner sometime."

Carol assures me she'd love to, giving me her comm number. We part ways friends.

**-XXX-**

_It's nightfall. The pair of moons are high, but with a cloudy sky it isn't clear enough to show me the lay of the land. I stumble through the darkness, tripping over the rocks that make up the landscape. It's a barren place filled with high stone bluffs, riffs, craggy hills. A wind howls past me, sending my hair flying like a whip. I keep surging forward, but seem to cover little ground. _

_ For what seems like the thousandth time, I tumble. Except, this time, I am slow to steady myself. With a cry, I fling myself against the nearest support, a large rock to my right, only to find myself slipping further. Just when it seems like I am about to fall to my death, a pair of strong hands find my arms, pulling me up until I make contact with a solid chest. I sob, leaning into my savior. The cool hands, pale, long-fingered, strong, stroke my back. One settles against my waist, moving me closer. _

_ I feel safe. My sobs subside. _

_ "Alya…."_

_ Tilting my head up by my chin, my savior looks down upon me. It's Khan._

_ My relief is short-lived. His eyes change, becoming crystalline and hard. It's the gaze of the senseless creature that cornered me on the _Botany Bay. _Another cry threatens to rise within my throat. Before I can twist away, the grip on my waist drifts upwards, closing around my throat. Beneath the strength of his hand, I am sure my neck feels like a mere twig. A twig he could snap with just the twitch of a few fingers. _

_ He speaks again. "Alya."_

_ It's a mournful sound. Even so, the pressure on my neck increases. I struggle, crawling at the constricting hands, scratching every inch of flesh that I meet. I'm choking with desperation._

_ "Khan –" I wheeze before blacking out._

**-XXX-**

I woke with a start. For several minutes I stared at the ceiling, wondering at the meaning of the dream. But I don't ponder long. With a sigh, I toss over, curling into my pillow, resolving to fall back to sleep. It took fifteen minutes, but I was soon dozing again.

**-XXX-**

I honestly didn't mean to show him my flat. Truly. If I'd had any say, I wouldn't have let the supposedly homicidal augmented man historically responsibly for leading massive armies of genetic superhumans against my species anywhere near my place of residency, but I'd had little choice in the matter. It's just my luck, I suppose, for wearing heels on a rainy day.

Though only my third trip to the Kevlin Memorial Archives, it was my fifth time running into John Harrison since moving to London. And I do not use the term "run into" lightly – four out of five encounters had began with some form of physical contact that was less than consensual and quite surprising. You would think in a city so large it would be near-impossible to continually meet a person in such a manner, but it would appear I had the worst luck. Or maybe it was just luck. Because, so far, these encounters had resulted in semi-pleasant interactions. We'd even gone for coffee, once.

On this day I'm running a little late – my mother had called just as I was leaving the flat, keeping me back by fifteen minutes. Naturally. And, of course, I fail to beat the rain. Despite the use of an umbrella, I enter the archive cold and damp, shivering all the way across the lobby into the lift, down into the stacks. For two hours I browse, quite irritated with the feel cool, wet fabric against my skin. The worst were my shoes – not only were they a little damp, they skid across the floor scarily. I'd been lucky to catch myself every time – though, most of the credit could go towards the shelves that I'd steadied myself upon.

There is something about sinking my focus into old records that is utterly calming. In my zen state I go through eight pages of my notebook at rapid pace, filling the narrow lines with my less-than-neat scrawls. Taking notes steadies me after a rather hectic morning, putting me in a sort of mechanical academic mindset that causes me to be incredibly productive, so I am slow to take a break. Two hours pass before I even think to stop.

I am annotating a few weather manuscripts when a set of pale fingers skirt my shoulders, closing in on my neck, massaging my tensed muscles. I nearly shriek, jolting terribly at the touch. Behind me there is a chuckle. Peering up I am met with the amused blue eyes of John Harrison.

"You're very focused," he observes. "I've been here nearly five minutes."

Turning in my chair, I rest one elbow against the head, curling one leg beneath me. "I don't believe that," I protest. "I would've heard the lift, at the very least –"

"You didn't even look up!" John chides. He pulls out the chair beside me to sit. Casting a glance along the floor, I am pleased to see that we're entirely alone. When I look back at him, he reaches out to push a few stray locks from my forehead – from the drizzle and wind my hair must be a wreck, and I've been too focused in my notes to care much about my appearance. John's arrival does nothing to change my level of consideration, though he appears to have some regard for how I look when in his company. The motion is oddly personal and tender for him, causing me to sit stalk-straight. His fingers linger along my brow, sweeping down my cheek and jaw before he settles back.

Feeling ill-at-ease, I watch him watch me for several moments before asking, "What are you doing here?"

"I believe the archive is open for the use of all academics and Starfleet personnel," he answers snidely. Sliding my notes over, he browses the small markings in black ink, brow furrowing as he scans the paper. "You call this handwriting?"

With a growl, I move to snatch the notebook back. He teases it just within my reach before pulling back. In frustration I lunge, nearly toppling myself over, falling into his lap. My cheeks flame when he chuckles – I'm acting as a silly tweenaged girl, completely immature, utterly disgraceful. But the way his gaze softens upon me reminds me that I'm nearly twenty-five and while I'm very young I'm also not a kid by any means. I straighten with a cough. John smirks, placing my notebook delicately upon the table. When I reach for it he catches my wrist in a snap, drawing it up to his cheek. I smooth my fingers against his skin.

"What are you doing here?" I ask again. "Don't you have…work, or something?"

"I've had a personal project I've been working on. It has been successful, so I thought I might celebrate."

"With me?"

"Naturally."

I drop my hand, letting it rest in my lap. "I've got loads to do here…."I say wistfully. "Tons of records to go through still. But I might be able to do lunch."

"I'll take it."

He helps me with my jacket – now spring, it is still a touch chilly. We take the stairs up. Thankfully, things have been moped up. The only thing that makes me unsteady now is my own unwise decision in footwear.

"Lot of research?" he asks conversationally when we hit the first landing. This is not the aloof John I know, but I choose not to question his friendlier attitude.

"Loads. I'll probably be here all week. But I've gotten some great leads, so I don't mind it so much."

Oddly, John seems to still beside me upon hearing my answer. "Are you coming in tomorrow?"

"Probably, yeah."

"How fun." His smile is tight. "I'll get the cab."

**-XXX-**

At the bistro, John seems to go back into himself. He's quiet, seemingly thoughtful. I stab at my salad, letting the silence roll without question. The conversation is spotty, at best, with little flow. I don't let it bother me. Clearly, he's got something heavy on his mind.

"You're planning on returning to the archives tomorrow?" he asks again, rather abruptly when I'm in the midst of observing an elderly couple selecting a paper at a stand across the street.

"Yes, I think so," I reply. "Like I said, got a lot to do."

"You let yourself get lost among those musty old papers far too easily, Dr. Nejem."

I smile into my plate. "Maybe," I admit. "What about you, with your secret projects? Hiding in your little lab for weeks on end."

Somewhere within the last couple months, he had let slip that the basement of his apartment building was sort of his make-shift laboratory. The landlord had been quite kind in letting him use the space. I've never gone down myself – if anything, I avoided going to his flat. It depressed me.

John allows a slight smile. "One must have a few hobbies."

"What are you doing down there?"

"Oh, you know…experimenting."

I twist my lips, but don't push him further.

When leaving the restaurant, John suggests we walk for a bit in a nearby park. I agree easily enough – fresh air would be nice before I sentence myself to another couple of hours in the achieves. It's stopped raining, however, the paths are still a little wet. I'm tempting to seek John's arm for support. But I carry on, trying desperately to maintain balance.

We're in the middle of observing the change in weather when it happens. I misstep, accidentally slide on a leaf, trip over nothing or something . Some how I fall. Shrieking unattractively, I stumble, landing on the ground – hard. John lunges to catch me, but does not manage to grab me in time. But the time he's lifted me up, the damage is done.

One arm automatically goes beneath my knees, the other to my back, and before I can register what's happening he's swept me up and carried me to the closest bench. I am laid out across the bench as he examines me. Long pale fingers probe all of my joins swiftly. When he touches my ankle I give a sharp intake of breath, followed by a low cry of pain. John looks at me. He's already moved up my leg. "Your ankle?"

I nod, tears welling in my eyes. He feels it again, focused on the feel of the bones. I bite my lip as he examines me.

"Not broke," he finally announces. "But at the very least twisted or sprang. You'll need to stay off of it for a while."

"But I –"

"At least a few days," he cuts across sternly. "Now, let's get you home."

"Oh," I say hastily. "You can just toss me in a cab, I'll manage fine."

John Harrison appears mildly insulted at the mere thought. "I'm taking you home, Nejem. Someone needs to look after you while you're in such a vulnerable state. Come along."

I protest to being carried, insisting that he instead help me hobble to the curb. With a dramatic eye roll, John helps me sit up, then stand. When my injured limb touches the ground, I hiss. Instantly his arm is around my waist. "Don't be foolish," he murmurs in my ear. "Slowly."

Together we move towards the nearest exit. On the sidewalk outside of the park's gates John managed to hail a cab rather swiftly. He eases me inside before following. I give the driver my home address, though it is with reluctance.

"What happened to 'er?" the cabbie asks, looking in his rearview mirror at us.

"She fell," John says shortly. There's something in his tone that quickly cows the driver, who turns his focus to the road with an unintelligible mutter. John slips an arm around my waist, keeping me close by his side, as though I'm about to burst from the vehicle. The rest of the ride is awkwardly silent.

Once at my building, John lifts me from the car, pays the cabbie, and carries me up the stoop. Despite being quite comfortable with my head against his chest, I protest every step.

"I can at least hobble!"

"Give me your keys."

Digging in my bag – which he's tossed around his shoulder – I fork over the key ring with a scowl.

He jiggles them in the lock, then slips us inside. Two flights later, and we're at my apartment door. Again, I select a key.

I am deposited on my bed unceremoniously. Bouncing off the mattress, I ought to feel annoyed, but I'm too relieved to have finally made it home to muster up too much irritation. John casts an eye around my bedroom, taking in the piles of books, the over-filled hamper, half-open, exploding closet, and various knicknacks. Thankfully, it's a bit cleaner than usual.

"Usually a guy has to buy me dinner first before he's allowed in here," I murmur, adjusting my pillow. My savior stops me to move the pillow himself.

"I've bought you many dinners," he replies dryly. "And coffees, and cab fares…."

"And yet I doubt I'll be having much fun in this bed tonight."

His lips quirk. "You should be getting sleep. Do you have any ice?"

"Going to fetch me a cocktail?"

John stands, crossing to the bathroom that connects to the bedroom, through the door just to the left of the closet. Struggling to maintain an eye on him, I am defeated by the distance, though I can hear him rummaging around. He emerges several minutes later with a pressure bandage.

"Ice?"

I direct him to the kitchen. Another several minutes are spent laying in bed, listing to the noise of someone moving through my flat. John is back at my bedside in a few minutes, this time bearing a bag filled with ice, wrapped in a dishtowel. He then sets to work bandaging my foot. The jostling causes me to wince. John ignores my discomfort. When he finishes, he snags a throw pillow from the living to prop beneath the injured limb.

"Will I make it?" I ask dramatically. "Tell me, will I live to see another day?"

If John Harrison were the eye-rolling type, I have no doubt he'd be gracing me with a heavy one. "You'll be fine, Nejem. Just stay off of it for the next several days and be liberal with the ice – on an hour, off an hour."

Snuggling into the pillow, I grin. "You make quite the nurse, Mr. Harrison."

"You don't go through a war or two without learning a few things in field dressing."

"I forgot you were a great general."

A brow rises. "Great?"

"You made quite a few history books."

"Good to know. Does that qualify one as 'great?'"

"That does not necessarily mean good," I add. "Just…impressive."

"That is a word that has been applied to me many a time." He moves to sit closer to my head. "Do you need anything?"

"Are you leaving?"

Surprised, John confirms this. "Did you want me to say?"

At the moment, I'm feeling very sleepy. Nodding heavily, I reach out for his hands. John leans in. "For a short time. I've got work left to do today."

"Okay." The back of my hand is stroked lightly, the bones traced by light fingers. "Thank you," I murmur. "For doing all of this. You didn't have to."

"Oh, but I did." He turns my hand over, drawing lines long against my palm. Lingering at the tops of my fingers, his lips twist into something tight, unpleasant. "Promise you'll stay in tomorrow?"

His delicate touch has put me into a trance. For a beat I stare. A pointed look from John shakes me of it.

"Yes, yes, I promise," I swear with a sigh. "I'll stay right here. Cancel all of my appointments, rest up, all of that."

Relaxing by a fraction, John turns my hand again in his, twining our fingers. "Good."

**-XXX-**

**Awwwww. Things are getting fluffy!**

**We're reaching something of a culmination here. Why oh why could Mr. Harrison be so keen to keep her indoors? Hm…**

**Once again, thank you for your lovely support. Feedback is my life blood, and certainly a wonderful little-pick-me-up. **

**Please review! **


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

**Here we get a little more into Khan's perspective on matters. There is a bit of jumping around with the timelines, but it should be relatively easy to pick out what's happening.**

**Thank you for all the follows and feedback! I truly appreciate it! Keep 'em coming! **

**-XXX-**

**2259, spring**

Only a few hours before he met Alya in the archive he met Thomas Harewood to give him the vial of modified blood serum as well as the explosive. The exchange had given him a great feeling – something like relief. It wouldn't get his family back, no, but at least he'd get his taste of vengeance.

This reminded him of the ship he's designed for Marcus, and of the admiral himself. Which had only improved his new mood.

He had taken Alya's advice in negotiating for his family's release several months ago. Unfortunately, this seemed to have reminded Marcus of his advantage.

**-XXX-**

**2258, winter**

"You've done good work," the admiral admits gruffly. "The new tracking system will increase accuracy by fifteen percent, and the calibration of the new phasers has increased range. I am impressed."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're doing good work," he says again.

Khan sits, completely stiff, before the admiral's desk. Beyond the high windows it is a clear, bright day. The office is almost painfully bright with the abundance of white, reflective surface, and glass. He feels as though he is being examined. Inspected. The hands he has placed on his knees tense ever-so-slightly. _"Composure," _he reminds himself. _"This man is nothing."_

Except the key to getting his family back.

"You'll see the fruits of your labors, Mr. Harrison," the admiral continues. "Things with the Klingons are really beginning to heat up. We may have a war before the next year is out. There have been some…complications.

Shifting, Khan inclines his head in thanks. "I am pleased that you are satisfied with my improvements, sir. While we are on the subject, I would like to discuss my crew."

Marcus sat back. "What about them, Mr. Harrison?"

"I should like to know when they are being released, " Khan says evenly. "When shall I see them?"

"Ah…that is a big question." The admiral's brow furrowed. "You see, Mr. Harrison, that is entirely dependent on you and your success."

"I have been compliant to all of your demands." In his lap, his hands tighten, curling to fists. "I can completed all tasks according to your deadlines."

"You make it sound as though this is such work for you, Mr. Harrison….yes, you have been efficient in all of your assignments. But I don't think we're quite done yet. There is still much to do if we're to be prepared for any potential conflicts with the Klingons. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

"I think we can both agree you've been quite productive. However," Here the admiral's eyes darkened. "Should your productivity being…lacking. Should we find it wanting…I cannot guarantee their safety, Mr. Harrison." He shrugs, palms open in a _"oh-what-can-you-do" _manner. "Do we understand one another, Mr. Harrison?"

Khan's eyes narrowed, but he did not speak for a long moment. "Perfectly."

Later, in the lift, he examines his hand. There are small half-moons of red where his nails have cut into the palm.

**-XXX-**

When he'd retaliated for a second time – injuring a lab assistant with a clipboard this time when he was given a list of improvements to be made to the _Vengeance's _ design. Marcus had not been pleased. And when Khan had further failed to implement the new designs before the turn of the new year, he was informed that one more strike would lead to half of his fellow Augments being terminated.

The improvements in the designs had been beyond his reach – at least, within the time he had been given. Despite begging for more time, mercy, anything. But Marcus wasn't taking it. He would get his way. Or else Khan and his family would pay.

That was when he began designing the torpedoes. It didn't take long. Between the double prototypes – false ones for the labs in Section 31, and the truer models built in his basement lab. A bit of bribery lead him to his friends – all locked snuggly away in a warehouse just outside of Moscow. Further persuasion – this time in the form of blackmail – brought them to him, in small shipments. In the dead of the night, Khan would complete the torpedoes, encasing each and everyone of his crewmates into their own personal unit. He would often linger, looking over their faces as he finished the last couple of details. It only a few months for him to finish them. In no time, he could walk down to the storage level of the lab and see his family – all seventy-two – lined out.

And then he was discovered. He wasn't sure how or by whom, but that didn't matter, truly, in the end. He was found out.

Maybe it was a lab assistant. Or perhaps one of the security officers. Either way, someone had spotted him slipped into the storage level at an odd time, and sent word up the line to investigate. Spring arrived, and he was being called into one of the managerial offices for an unscheduled comm conference with the admiral. The head of department who had called him in avoided eye contact pointedly. It was then that Khan knew something unfortunate had occurred.

Marcus was calm when he confronted Khan. At complete and utter peace with the situation.

"I'm disappointed, Mr. Harrison," he had sighed. "We were getting along so well. Why did you have to go and mess that up now?"

Khan didn't even dignify the jab with a response. He simply stared forward, focusing on the coolness of the cuffs pinching his wrists, the hum of the comm unit he sat before, the back of the chair supporting his spine.

"Well, we both know what the consequences are here." The admiral had sighed again, as though he truly regretted what course of action he was about to take. "I hate to do it, but you've clearly given me no choice –"

From that moment he was quarantined to his apartment. But that did not last long, no; in less than a day he'd found Thomas Hardwood and his tragic situation. In half a week he'd made the offer, and the deal was struck.

**-XXX-**

**2259, spring**

I wake up late in the day. Last night I'd stayed up only for a few hours beyond John's exit from my apartment. All in all I'd gotten a ton of sleep – but sleep is something I do well. When I awoke I hobbled to the kitchen for coffee, then propped myself up on the couch, flicking on the news.

_"…and within the hour. We're receiving reports of numerous confirmed fatalities, and several injuries. Let's go to Roy, who is at the site of the blast. Roy, what's the word from the site?"_

_ "The Kelvin Memorial Archive is a historic place, a wealth of knowledge and Starfleet's primary record center. But the pain of its loss is nothing in comparison to the loss of life we're seeing here today. Reports indicate that the death toll is reaching the dozens. From what we can gather, the explosion came from one of the lower levels…."_

Stunned, I stare at the screen. My coffee mug tumbles to the floor, soaking the carpet with its brown-black contents. The anchor moves on to an expert in something-or-other.

_ "Terri, would you speculated that this was a domestic attack? Something perhaps…terroristic in nature?"_

_ "I would say it's a little early to truly say, Sean, but what we're looking at here is certainly malicious in its nature. Authorities on the scene have confirmed that the blast was not accidental, not caused by any technical malfunctions or wiring problems. This was a targeted attack."_

I gasp in time with my comm ringing. I swiftly answer. My mother's worried face fills the screen. She shrieks upon seeing me, crying unintelligibly.

"Mom, I'm okay, I'm okay. Still in PJs, see?" I tug on my collar. "I'm fine."

"Oh, thank God," she sobs. In the background, I can see my father with his head in his hands and a darkened window. It's only about six in the morning over there. They eat breakfast together every morning and watch the news. Of course they'd seen.

"Promise me," she demands between sobs.

I roll my eyes. "I am perfectly alright. I twisted my ankle yesterday, I couldn't even leave the house."

Another round of tears. It takes about fifteen minutes to fully assure her that I'm whole and hale. I finally manage to calm her down with a promise to visit soon. My father speaks for a few more minutes, then they let me go. I switch back to the news, then sit blankly on the couch, staring at the figures on my screen.

It's funny how when faced with my distressed mother, I cannot summon tears. Even when we're united with fear and shock. But give me a few minutes before the BBC World News Channel, and I am a mess. A jiggly ball of emotion. I just sit and cry miserably.

Had I gone to work today, I'd be dead. Gone. This thought alone is enough to cause me to spasm with fear. I should thank my lucky stars that I tripped or whatever yesterday.

"_Who would do such a thing?"_

I am left without answers. No news station, no reporter, now "authority" can honestly tell us who or what or why or _anything. _

That's kind of how I spend the day. On my couch, watching the news, mourning. Utterly stunned.

**-XXX-**

Somewhere around midnight I am woken by a bright golden light and whizzing noise that appears in the middle of my bedroom. I sit up quickly, moving my injured ankle and hissing, doubling over. Looking up, I see John Harrison materializing in the middle of my bedroom, golden bands wrapped around his form, the distinct buzz of a transporter beam whirling in the air. Brow furrowing, I pull my duvet up to my chest.

"John," I hiss. "What the hell?"

He looks very…intense. Face drawn, eyes hard, he radiates danger. Along his hairline, just left of the part is a crust of blood, and his lip is split, but healing. Altogether, he appears entirely _Khan._

I inadvertently press myself closer to the headboard. The duvet follows until it's reached my chin. "What's going on?" I demand.

Walking around the bed, he looms. "I'm leaving."

For a beat, I stare. "Um…okay."

"London. Earth. I'm leaving," he tells me blankly.

"What do you mean?" I frown.

He sits on the edge of my bed. "I bombed the archive, Alya. I took my revenge on Starfleet. Now I have to go."

"What?" I shriek, pushing the covers back, moving to my knees. "Khan, you destroyed the archives? But –"

"He killed them, Alya," he whispers. Sinking onto the bed, his head falls to my shoulder. "He killed them all. I was trying to smuggle them out, and was found out. And he…."

"Khan." I can't help but wrap my arms around him. Never before has he appeared so distressed. Still, the man is stone beneath my hands. So I just run a soothing hand up and down his back, trying not to concentrate on the fact that he's just killed a good number of innocent people in the name of revenge. Because if I think about it, I don't know if I could stand to look at him. And if he knew that I felt that way he might not be so subdued. Khan and I may be friends, yet it never fails to niggle the back of my mind that he was once a warlord and is still a homicidal sociopath.

Buried in the crook of my neck, I feel his breath against my skin, moving the hair that pools against my shoulder. Pulling him closer, I murmur gently.

"You'll be okay. You'll be fine, you've got me. We'll find a way to away from them, Khan," I utter. If I'd really considered it, agreeing to hide a mass murder is perhaps not the best of moves, especially not for my career. But I just wanted him to be _okay. _I run a hand through his hair, stroking it down his neck. "You'll be okay….no one else needs to get hurt."

He sighs against my neck. "If they leave me be, no one shall."

"Where are you going?"

"Kronos."

Concerned, I pause in my soothing. "The Klingon home world? Won't that give Marcus a chance to –"

"There is no way Starfleet command will let any part of the fleet beyond the neutral zone now," he assures me, nosing my neck. This sudden affectionate Khan has me a little stunned, but I take it in my best stride – no need to break the moment. "It will be safe – I'll stay in an barren region until it is prudent for me to return."

"Why are you still here? Why not go right after?" My hands have gone to his shoulders, sliding down his chest to curling in to emphasize my point. "I don't condone what you've done, but I couldn't stand to - you should go!"

Khan pulls back to take my chin, tilting it upwards. "I had a few more things left to do – you'll likely see it in tomorrow's news."

Pained, I sigh. "Do I want to know?"

"Likely not." His lips quirked fondly.

"That's all good and well, but why are you here, specifically? Housing a terrorist wasn't something on my bucket list…."

A hand rises to brush back a few strands of my less-than-neat hair. Khan's eyes are liquid as he nears me.

"It'll be a time before I see you again," he murmurs, a hair's breathe above my lips. Against his chest, I shiver. "Thought I would come to say goodbye."

That's when his mouth descends on mine, lightly teasing for a few seconds before applying a fuller pressure. Hands fall from my chin to my waist, pulling me flush to his body. For several minutes, I am kissed chastely before Khan pulls away, putting a hand up to cup my face, letting it linger as the thumb brushes over my cheek. My forehead goes to his, and for several moments we sit, breathing.

"I need to go," he says finally.

"Yes." But I take a great bit of time before pulling back. "Please – be careful."

He doesn't answer, but gives me one of his less-stonier half-smiles.

"And…if you ever manage to come back, don't hesitate to find me," I whisper. "I won't turn you away. Promise."

Khan sweeps another kiss upon my forehead as he stands, removing himself from my embrace. "I plan to."

**-XXX-**

I have to medicate myself to get back to sleep. The next morning I rise early, checking news reports, then I book myself a ticket to D.C. My mother's panic attack means a rather smothering encounter the next time I visit, so it's be to get that over with sooner, rather than later. Besides, it's easier to convince her of my safety in-person rather than over comm. Dad's birthday is on Tuesday, too, so this will overall make a nice surprise.

By three o'clock that afternoon I'm in line for my flight, trying far too hard to not think of my visitor from last night. It would just be so much better, easier, to forgot someone you're bound to never see again.

**-XXX-**

**And that just about brings us to an equal point in the timelines!**

**Got a little fluff-kissing action there. Was it too much? Not enough? Thoughts? **

**Questions? Comments? Concerns? I answer 'em all! **


End file.
